Miamian Psycho
by Patrick O'Ceannliath
Summary: Shortly before Dexter Season 6, Dexter and Miami Metro are investigating several brutal murders, each similar but without a distinct pattern, and Dexter feels they are connected somehow. As Dexter digs deeper, he finds they are similar to murders committed in the late 80s in New York, and coincide with a new entrepreneur in town, who becomes Dexter's latest target...Patrick Bateman
1. Chapter 1

Miamian Psycho

By Patrick O'Ceannliath

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**PATRICK**

I always knew I'd find myself in a paradise like this one day. Florida, one of the last paradises that can be found in America. Sure, Dad would always say it's nothing but a retirement hole for old Jews, but I can live with that.

At age 52, you wouldn't think me a day over 29. The impeccable routines I've put myself through over the years to keep myself in top shape, with the smoothest skin, and the most cutting-edge style; there is no second-guessing my success, both professionally and in life.

I deeply inhale the salty, breezy air, and touch the tip of my right finger to my cheek. Despite the unavoidable line or two on my face, my skin remains impeccable, and smooth as a combination of infant skin and marble. My daily routine of facial preparation, exercise, hygiene, and overall well-being, hasn't changed since I was 16 years old. One might call that obsessive-compulsive, but the ones who do, never look or feel as good as I do at my age. I relax in my backyard, far enough in the shade of my palm trees to avoid the direct sunlight, but close enough where I can feel the sun's warmth. The pina colada I drink is a testament of pure; fresh coconut milk, produced a mere 3 hours ago, and hand-made Cuban rum, made especially for me by Fernando, my illegal gardener.

At first when I moved here, I thought of the Cubans and other naturalized Latino subcultures as filthy and worthless as the niggers, spics, chinks, and other various immigrant scum that plagued the streets and lower-income urban areas of New York. Just another brown locust here to feed off the fruits that were built upon the backs of hard-working Americans! Yet, as I began to employ them, and got to know them, a feeling I've never given to any one person or group of people for many years emerged; respect. These were a people who crawled and swam from a country drowning in shit, for nothing more than the freedom to scrape the shit of the overlords they chose. A trait that, despite their race, deserves respect in my book, and a trait that has come in handy for me personally. As I began to amass my staff of personal Cuban and other various Latino assistants, I found that this trait of willingness made them 3 things; loyal, discreet….and even expendable.

The oh-so-wonderful Stalinist representatives of New York's Federal Trade Commission took it upon themselves to regulate the ever-living fuck out of my investment banking empire, and so, Bateman Securities was moved to the more friendly and understanding location of Miami, FL. True, I may have made millions on Wall Street at the expense of Main Street, perhaps my business dealings weren't 100% legal, yes I have multiple Cayman Island accounts; it's called kill or be killed. These so-called "Occupiers" I hear about, a bunch of insignificant ants in a swarm, thinking that by their sheer numbers they can make a difference against a stone wall. I often think about what I could to do to them; the beautiful myriad of gashes I could make across their throats, how I could spell "Occupy This" with their various body parts, how I could gang-rape their women while the helpless, pussy hippies they called their boyfriends watched, maybe even write my company logo in their blood….

Now was a new beginning. I could be a new man, the same man, or the man I used to be. As far as the Miami Businesses were concerned, I was the perfect corporate citizen, and like State Farm, a good neighbor, always there. Hell, even my neighbors in the building across from my headquarters, the Miami Metro Police Department, think I'm a great guy! If they only knew my history, and the desires that define me; would they continue to be as neighborly as they have been?

Since I've settled into my new home, old habits die hard, and old desires awaken, and burn, with a vengeance. Because I've taken such good care of myself over the years, because I AM a God on Earth, in physical and beautiful perfection, I have earned the right to indulge myself yet again. Oh the 80s, how I miss you! The money, the blood, the booze, the pussy, the flaying, the sex, the decapitation, the blowjobs, the torture; I've kept it surprised for so many years, it's like testicles full to the brim with cum, just waiting for a release. In my case, that is both figuratively, and literally, true. I've kept every instrument I've gathered over the years; guns, knives, swords, wires, coat hangers, power tools, yard tools, anything that can cleave flesh or break bone. I found it empowering, orgasmic, immortalizing.

As I sit enjoying the beautiful Florida spring weather, I twirl a strand of braided blonde hair, complete with a bead at the end. The Internet makes it so much easy, and cheaper, today; no need to canvass hardened streets for hookers, and high-priced escort girls were now more expensive, and more traceable. All it takes now, is the right photographs, the right words, and showing up at the right place at the right time. Thank you God for the Internet, you truly do love me!

My last date ended rather abruptly, as many of my dates back in my 20s did, but still it was rather satisfying. She was one of the 4 I'd met so far in Miami. I met her, or rather, "Keith Norwood", met her, at the Gilded Macaw in Coconut Grove. She was your typical "daddy didn't love me" brat, who would do absolutely ANYTHING for a little male attention; it was almost too easy! 3 Blue Hawaiians later, and we're already headed back to Keith Norwood's shitty basement apartment in Hialeah. In my years of experience, I've since learned, and resolved, never to bring women to my true home. As drunk as she was, it was the Taj Mahal. She was practically naked before I even closed the door, and blew me right as the door was closing. I grabbed her throat and jerked her head back and forth on my shaft, getting off as she gagged upon my girth, and when I was finished, threw her upon the mattress. She half moaned, half cried, when I forced my cock into her asshole, thrusting roughly, feeling her bleed. After awhile of that, I withdrew, smearing the blood on my hand and licking it, before shoving my still-throbbing hard-on deep into her pussy, grabbing her hair as I fucked her from behind. I thrust as hard as I could, she was practically screaming, and I wasn't sure if this was out of agony, or pleasure, or both. Reaching underneath the mattress, I took out a machete, purchased from a local Latino flea market, and the weapon of choice of many gangs in the area. After I blew my load inside her, I withdrew, and proceeded to fuck her with the machete blade. Moaning with pleasure at first, then obviously pain, she turned around to see me impaling her gash with the machete, over and over again. She screamed and tried to crawl away, but I grabbed her by the hair again, and cut off both her legs. She cried pitifully, and I let her try to crawl towards the door on her hands and bloody stumps. She managed to reach towards the doorknob, and I cut off her hand, then the other one, then both arms, then her tits, and stood over her bleeding torso as she continued to weep. I finally ended it, thrusting the machete blade right between her neck, her final gurgling satisfying both personally and sexually.

After a meticulous cleanup, I tossed what was left of the body in the part. With as many druglords and gangs in this area, no one would notice it. I kept strands of the bitch's hair as a souvenir, and toy, for me to play with later.

Ladies and gentlemen of Miami, Patrick Batemen has arrived!


	2. Chapter 2

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**DEXTER**

"Fifth one in the span of 3 weeks, fifth one!" said Batista. "This guy's a fucking animal!"

It was about 7am on a Wednesday, the air hot and humid, and I received a page to head out to Las Sirenas Park in the Hialeah neighborhood. I stood over what was left of the latest victim of "The Cuisinart Killer", as the Miami Herald had dubbed him, or her, as the majority of the killer's victims were so mutilated, and in such a random fashion, they looked like they'd been put through a blender. Cuisinart however, found the nickname quite unamusing, and damaging to their brand, and promptly filed suit against the Herald.

As I'd been finding with a lot of these cases, there wasn't much blood to be had, but with Vince Masuka out recovering from surgery, all the lab duties fell to me for the time being. Thank God for Jamie Batista! If it hadn't been for Angel introducing me to her, I don't know how I'd balance work and watching Harrison.

I examined the body of 23-year-old Juno Gregory, a recent college graduate hired as an office assistant for a local law firm. Out of college, and into the twisted blender, it seemed. The others began to flash in my mind; Cindy Tillman, Katherine Foster, Blanca Del Cruz, Andrea Garcia, Juno had been hacked to pieces just like the rest of them. The blades sometimes varied, but the MO was always the same, making limb salad out of the victims.

"Not much blood to speak of." I said to Batista. "As I suspected, just like the rest, she wasn't killed here. The blood I do see is dried, and a lot of it looks out of place, as if she were brought here in a garbage bag and dumped."

"Yeah, figures." said Batista. "Man I can't wait until we catch this guy! It takes a certain type of sicko to perform this kind of depraved shit on a person."

'I hate to burst your bubble, but you'll never find him.' I replied in my mind to Batista. 'Because he's headed for my table first.'

I looked over the cuts made to the victim, noting any details.

"The cuts were made from a blade no doubt." I explained to Batista. "Something with a smooth, straight edge, like a lawnmower blade, machete, axe or similar. He probably let her bleed out when he hit the major arteries."

I then examined, and took samples, from the orifices of the victim; mouth, anus, what was left of the vagina, and this was the telltale connection, as I could even smell. The killer had swabbed all three out with bleach, in an effort to conceal any DNA evidence, and so far it had been successful.

"Probably a rape/sexual assault, then murder, per the previous cases." I told Batista. "I'm going to analyze these samples back at the lab, but I don't expect them to turn up anything too incriminating. They each share that same characteristic we've been talking about."

I purposely didn't elaborate on what that characteristic was, because I could see LaGuerta fending off the press from the sidelines as we did our work. We did not yet release the part about the bleach to the public, one of those details we wanted to see if the killer would trip up about first.

My sister Debbie was also on the scene, doing her part in the investigation.

"And this particular victim had it pretty horrific." I said, feigning a gulp to give the illusion of empathy. "Whatever he used as the murder weapon….he also used, to perform vaginal intercourse."

Both Batista and Debbie looked stunned and disgusted.

"You've gotta be shitting me!" said Batista.

"Fuck me!" said Deb.

"Trust me, you wouldn't want him to." I told Debs.

"This douchebag needs his fucking balls put in a Cuisinart Blender!" said Debs. "Fucking sick motherfucker!"

"OK Debs." said Batista. "Well this definitely sounds like our guy then. Let's pack it up and head in to the station."

We concluded our investigation at the crime scene, took the necessary parts with us, and headed back to Miami Metro.

LaGuerta put the pressure on me to have the samples analyzed ASAP, and to bring my full report on this latest victim to her once I'd done all the digging I could. I ran everything through the lab, and as I suspected, nothing. No DNA samples, no prints, nothing. Whoever this guy was, he knew exactly what he was doing, and probably had been doing this for a very long time. He used latex gloves to conceal fingerprints, and never killed his victims in the same place he dumped them. He would kill them at another location, and choose the worst neighborhoods in Miami as his disposal grounds.

"This guy certainly knows how to make a clean kill." I said.

"How do you know it's not just some local gang or drug cartel kill?" Harry, my dead father, asked me. "Hialeah is big in drugs and sex trafficking."

"That's precisely what this guy wants us to think." I said. "And that's how he can keep getting away with it."

"If that's true, you best be on your highest guard Dexter." said Harry. "This could very well be another Arthur Mitchell you're dealing with."

"I know what I'm doing." I said quickly.

The events in my recent past still stung with me like no pain I'd ever felt before. Rita, the love of my life, had been murdered by the Trinity Killer, in retaliation for me hunting him down intent on killing him, which I eventually did, at the cost of almost everything a monster like me holds dear.

I went over the evidence one more time, and something nagged at me, something I felt I had to go back to.

The footprint indentations taken from the crime scene, I hadn't truly given them too deep of a look. So I put them through the computer to get a closer look.

Size 9.5, mens shoes, nothing super special there. The indentations were on wet sand, so it was difficult to see much. However, upon further inspection, there appeared to be a couple indentations, and I could barely make out either. Enhancing the image, the imprints became slightly clearer, and I could make out one of them, located mid-sole, better upon enhancing the image.

"TR…AM..ZA" Tramaza?

The second indentation, down towards the heel, was too blurred for me to get much out of, other than it seemed to be two words, and the second word began with a cursive "F".

I typed in "tramaza shoes" into Google, to see what kind of results I would get.

Instead of a brand for "tramaza" shoes, Google instead replied with "Did you mean 'tramezza shoes'?"

The first "tramezza shoes" link entry on Google that I could see was a link the official website for Salvatore Ferragamo, a line of well-known luxury shoes. Scanning the products on the website, the soles and make of the shoes seemed to match perfectly with the indentations left by the killer. Whomever this guy was, and it likely was a guy, he had expensive taste, which would aid me in tracking him down.

I decided to keep this detail to myself for now. After all, not everyone had as keen as eye as I do when enhancing images, and the average person wouldn't be able to decipher much from the enhancement anyway. I planned to put in my report that there were indentations but I was unable to gather anything viable from enhancing them.

Putting my report together, I grabbed it, and walked down to LaGuerta's office. Being that she wanted the report ASAP, I simply gave a quick knock, and opened her door.

To my surprise, she was not alone in the office. Deputy Chief Matthews was there, sitting on the other side of the desk, and sitting where I would normally sit when speaking to LaGuerta, was a guy that I did not recognize.

"Um, hello Captain LaGuerta, Deputy Chief Matthews." I said surprisingly. "Sorry to disturb you."

The guy sitting in the chair turned to me with a smile. He was a late middle-aged man, with brown hair that was obviously colored, not containing a speck of gray, and it was immaculately combed. The guy had a pearly-white smile, deep brown eyes, high, pronounced cheekbones, and a tan that would rival even the most avid Miami tanner, making me wonder if he had his own tanning bed at home. His skin contained age lines, but virtually no wrinkles, and no doubt this guy probably used Botox on a regular basis. He wore a spotless, expensive Brioni Vanquish II suit, and gave me the impression he started off his morning with a hot cup of Kopi Luwak.

"No it's my fault Dexter, I told you to see me ASAP." replied Maria, then gesturing towards the guest in her chair. "Dexter, this is Patrick Bateman, he owns Bateman Securities next door. Mr. Bateman, this is Dexter Morgan from our Forensics Lab."

Bateman stood up, and extended his hand.

"Pleased to meet you Dexter." he said as he offered his hand.

I returned the gesture with a firm, strong shake. The guy was strong, and could deliver a nice crushing grip if need be.

"Likewise, Mr. Bateman." I replied.

"Please, call me Patrick." replied Bateman. "So Dexter, what is it you do here at Miami Metro?"

"Oh, a little bit of everything." I said. "But I'm primarily the Blood-Spatter Analyst."

Bateman's eyes seemed to light up at the sound of my title, and I wasn't sure if it was curiosity, or something else.

"Blood-Spatter Analyst?!" said Bateman excitedly, turning to LaGuerta and Matthews. "That is truly amazing! One of my guilty pleasures are crime novels, and I've always found blood-spatter analysis, or at least how they describe it, ultimately fascinating!"

"Yes, we're very lucky to have Dexter with us." said Deputy Chief Matthews. "He's been doing it for years, and he's the best at what he does."

"Well then, it is truly an honor to meet you then Dexter!" said Bateman. "I'm a big fan of the type of work you do. Think I could get a sneak peek at it sometime?"

It was rare that you come across a civilian who knows what a Blood-Spatter Analyst is, and even rarer that you come across a civilian who even has the slightest sense of what a Blood-Spatter Analyst does. Needless to say, Bateman had caught my attention, and I was not yet sure if he was simply the rare forensics groupie, or something else. For now, I decided to treat him as the appreciative fan he appeared to be.

"Um, as long as the department is OK with it, I don't mind." I replied.

"We might be able to arrange something." said LaGuerta.

"So, what brings you to Miami Metro?" I said, following up with a joke. "Should we be keeping an eye on you?"

Bateman chuckled at the idea, with what appeared to almost be a cocky laugh.

"That's good, I like that." said Bateman. "Actually, I've been setting up shop here the past month, and I'm just now getting around to my neighbors here in the area to say hello, maybe offer my services. I actually was just wrapping up a conversation with Captain LaGuerta and Deputy Chief Matthews about some investment options that might be good for the department's pension program."

Bateman turned back to LaGuerta and Deputy Chief Matthews.

"Well you've got all the information you need from me." said Bateman. "I'll let you get back to official police business. Thanks again for seeing me on such short notice, very much a pleasure meeting you both."

Bateman shook both their hands before turning back to me.

"The pleasure is all ours." said Deputy Chief Matthews. "Thanks for dropping by."

"Yes, thank you Patrick." said LaGuerta. "Bienvenidos a Miami."

Before going out the door, Bateman shook my hand one more time, and reached into a coat pocket with his other hand.

"Great meeting you again Dexter." said Bateman. "Listen, here's my card. If you need any financial advice, want to do any investing, anything like that at all, it's in my best interest to make you as filthy rich as possible. Call me anytime."

"Sure, thanks." I replied. "Have a great day."

I looked at the business card, which read "Patrick Bateman – President/CEO; Bateman Securities", with his contact information.

I'd never seen a guy who seemed so pristine about his appearance. Even the business card looked like it'd been carved from ivory from a freshly-killed elephant, and had a warmth to it, like it was fresh from the printing press. The ink had a watermark, and the letters were thin, yet elegant, and easy to read. Seemed like the card was trying to tell me "You can have it all…but you'll never have more than me."

"Dexter." said LaGuerta. "I assume you have the report on the Gregory Case."

"Yes, right here." I said, sitting down. "I'll go ahead and give you the summary."

I began explaining what findings I was willing to reveal to LaGuerta and Matthews. All the while, visions of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes danced in my head. When I finished my day at Miami Metro, my first order of business would be looking into those shoes.

Then all of the sudden, a question struck in my mind, like two pieces of a puzzle fitting perfectly together.

"I wonder what kind of shoes Bateman wears?"


	3. Chapter 3

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**PATRICK**

God I couldn't wait to get out of that fucking pig station!

I truly broke a personal record with my Mask of Sanity exercises today, as I seemed to since moving down to sunny Florida. This whole "good neighbor" act was making me want to vomit. During the conversation about investments, annuities, and the rest of the bullshit I built my life's work on, all I could think about was whether or not that Cuban bitch Captain was shaved, and if I fried her pussy lips on my griddle, would they taste like bacon?

Plus, that forensics guy was kind of interesting. Derek, or whatever his name was, I'd forgotten almost as soon as I'd repeated it for the last time. Blood spatter analysis; I truly had a desire to see what this guy did firsthand, all that beautiful blood. I saw it often with my victims, spraying out some artery like fireworks fountain on the Fourth of July, or seeping out calmly, giving me images of a serene, babbling brook.

My love for Derek's work was the only sincere thing about me during that meet and greet. I could give a shit less about whether the pigs decided to go for any of my investment options. With them all in such close proximity, I had to bolster my Mask of Sanity extra-strong for them. Plus, if they did give me their business, I leech off their hard-earned money. Can't argue with that.

On the way out, I gave a friendly smile and glance at the various pigs and pig-helpers that I saw, touching up the Mask every opportunity I could. As I was just about out the door however, I almost ran smack into this reddish-brunette, dressed like some redneck fresh out of the Everglades.

"Oh sorry!" said the woman. "I guess I wasn't watching where I was.."

The woman locked eyes with me. She was about average-height, in good shape, and wore a badge amongst the rags she called her outfit. It disgusted me that a station claiming to be professional would let their employees dress in such a fashion. Regardless, this chick was hot. Striking green eyes with tints of amber, lips I could already see pursed around my cock, and she looked like some Catholic girl smitten with a schoolgirl crush at the sight of me. Another benefit to working as hard as I do at my appearance.

"I wasn't watching where I was hot." said the woman, correcting herself immediately. "Going, GOING! Sorry, going!"

"That's alright." I replied, extending my hand. "Patrick Bateman, President and CEO of Bateman Securities."

"Detective Debra Morgan, Homicide." said the woman with a dopey grin. "So you're our preppy new neighbor huh?"

'Preppy'? Oh how I missed the days of simply being called a yuppie scumbag. I started to think about how many ways I would fuck this chick, and the fact that she would be a pretty wild fuck to begin with. I also wondered how many parts of her body I could cut into cross section.

Pulling my Mask of Sanity on tight, I forced what passed for a sincere chuckle.

"Yep, but you can call me Patrick, Debra." I said. "I'm definitely admiring the view!"

Perhaps a bit too forward, but I couldn't help myself. Patrick Bateman's charm is irresistible to a lot of women, and she appeared to be no exception.

"Yeah, we've got a full open window view in this department." replied Debra.

"I wasn't talking about the windows." I said with a sly grin.

About that time, some skinny douchebag walks between us from the right-hand side. By the look on his face, he and Debra were an item.

"Help you find anything there?" said the douche, giving me that 'don't even think about coming on to my woman' look, it was amusing.

"Actually, I was just on my way out, and almost ran into this fine upstanding member of Miami Metro Homicide." I said, extending my hand, groan, yet again for a shake. "Patrick Bateman, President and CEO of Bateman Securities."

That canned line I had for the Neanderthal public was so cliché and overused. If I didn't care so much about myself, I'd probably slit my wrists in the bathtub when I got home.

"Detective Joe Quinn, Homicide." replied Mr. Douche. "Selling some life insurance or something?"

"Come on man, I've got a lot better than that." I said, masking my contempt for this shit cop. "Here's my card. If you ever want to beef up that little pension of yours, put some of those hard-earned detective dollars to use, give me a call, I'm in the business of making people rich."

I spared no quarter with that flea of a fool, dripping on the sarcasm and superiority as thickly as I could. Who the fuck did he think he is anyway? Challenging me, the little piss-ant! I pictured myself meeting him in some old gym somewhere, and driving a weight rod right through his skull under a bench press.

As for the girl, the thought had briefly crossed my mind to fuck and kill her, but it quickly disappeared as soon as it came. No way I'd be able to pull that one off, maybe not yet anyway; a cop going missing would be way too high profile, and with cop vengeance, followed by big-brother protectiveness from a predominantly male police department, the manhunt would go on forever!

This one, I would have to simply chalk up to my illustrations, as I occasionally did. It numbed part of the desire, but sooner or later I would need something more.

The rest of my day was fairly uneventful. I spent most of the time at the office with my associates, strumming up business and treating my current moron clients with kids gloves. I received another call from Jane's lawyer about the goddamned alimony payments, which I promptly redirected to my lawyer. Ever since my meeting at the police station, it was one shit moment, after another, and the shit began to snowball and roll downhill. In between work and play, I illustrated the depraved shit I'd love to do to Debra Morgan, in my private notebook. One involved a handsaw over her head while she sucked my dick, and another involved a boar spear shoved up her ass, while I fucked her missionary style. It was only the beginning, I'd definitely revisit some of those fantasies later.

Finally, dinnertime, I enjoyed an exquisite palate pleasure at my new favorite restaurant in Miami, and the only one that even came close to my pay grade. Azul. The Burrata Tomato Salad tantalized my appetite straightaway; the tomato juice dripped like blood, blood so fresh, and you could taste the love that went into growing these tomatoes. The basil oil and basalmic reduction waltzed about my tongue in a beautiful harmony, a tart yet earthy treat for the mouth. It was accompanied by a savory California Blue Crab roll. I always read how much bacteria blue crabs had in the wild, and was at first turned off to the idea. But one taste later, and I could've cared less if the crab had gonorrhea; this was my "go-to" sushi roll. The avocado and cucumber smoothed the taste up nicely, well-paired with the masago. Tonight, instead of the famous Florida Grouper, I simply had to try the Chamomile Scented Duck. So fresh, so savory, when they brought it to my table, I felt drowsy just with a whiff of the dish. Duck was a favorite of mine, such a rich, savory meat, with just the right amount of fat to make it delicious; with the right preparations, human flesh also tasted the same way. I savored every piece of the main course, right to the quinoa and pistachio combination, not to mention the orange emerging as one of the dominant flavors.

After a nearly orgasmic dinner at Azul, I contemplated my next move for the evening. The food, the sketching, it simply wasn't enough. My Mask of Sanity was slipping, and if I didn't make a kill tonight, the general public just might catch a glimpse of what was under that Mask in full view.

Using one of the piece of shit cars that I owned in the various piece of shit apartment buildings I rented throughout Miami's worst neighborhoods, I changed clothes, and drove around, looking for what I hoped to find. By nature, I preferred blondes, but I was hoping to find something a little more…auburn, tonight.

As if God answered my prayers, I pulled around to the corner of Lomas and Diega street, and saw here there on the corner. A hot Cuban Latina, couldn't have been older than 20, wearing slutty fishnet, a low-cut top, and an overabundance of lipstick. Her hair, her hair, it was dyed red. Amusingly, I wondered if the carpet matched the drapes, but quickly laughed the idea off.

I pulled my car up alongside her, rolling down the window.

"Hola papi!" she said to me in a provocative voice. "Quieres compañía?"

I held out a wad of cash in my hand, opening the door.

"Get in." I instructed her.


	4. Chapter 4

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**DEXTER**

Here we were again, back in the briefing room. Angel was running the show this time, laying out all the evidence we had so far, trying to put the pieces together, hashing out the strategy as we go along.

"Five bodies, three weeks." said Batista. "First two were in Liberty City, third in Opa-Locka, fourth in Overtown, and now this latest in Hialeah. We're looking at about an 11 mile radius from the spot of the first two disposal sites. We're in cooperation with the local police precincts, keeping a pulse on any unusual crime. Usually with the amount of bodies, and the brutality of the damage inflicted, somebody's trying to send a message to someone regardless."

'Or if you're a monster.' I said in my head. 'Which is why it takes one to catch one."

"Dexter, what have you got for us on the lab front?" asked Batista. "Anything new?"

"Some clues from the scene, but nothing conclusive yet." I replied, bullshitting my way through as usual. "Traces of cornstarch powder, indicative of latex gloves or similar; if it was some kind of gang initiation it was pretty elaborate, more likely drug or RICO related"

I continued with my description

"Partial thumb on the latest victim's forearm but so far no match within the database." I explained. "By the small amount of blood at the scene, they were probably killed someplace else and dumped there, and wherever they were killed probably has fast access to easy liquid disposal. All the blood matches the victim's. Size 9.5 mens shoes, wide, no viable indentations to reveal anything. Last but not least, there's the bleach swab to all three body cavities, and no trace of DNA or semen to be found."

"Looks like our guy has done this before." chimed in LaGuerta. "Sergeant Batista, any suspects?"

"I was just about to turn that over to Detective Morgan here." said Batista, motioning to my sister. "Please fill us in detective."

"We've canvassed the dump site neighborhoods, and have been met with the usual 'hear no evil, see no evil' response from the locals." replied Debs. "However, there has been an ongoing feud between two crime operations in Liberty City and parts of Hialeah; the Colombian-run Fraternidad de Huesos drug ring, and the Haitian-run Asasen Kochma drug and sex trafficking ring. 39-year-old Ronel 'Rabid' Tellier, top-of-the-food-chain enforcer for the Asasen Kochma, has been recently released after serving time for and he was seen as recently as two days ago in Liberty City; he earned his nickname due to the brutality of the beatings he gives to anyone who crosses the gang. He's got a history of domestic abuse with girlfriends and spouses, and it was his last girlfriend, Lupita Garcia, who turned him in and landed him in prison, after he brutally beat and starved her for over 15 days. He should've gone away for much longer, but thanks to a monumental Rodney-King-sized fuck-up by local police and federal agents that made top headlines, he only ended up serving 3 years for possession with intent to distribute."

Not bad Debs, the top muscle of a Haitian gang, and what better way to make a "fresh out of jail" statement for his gang by chopping up the girlfriends of rival gang members. Not a subtle message. I looked at the Tellier's picture that Debs put up on display for us to see; I saw a calculated, cruel, scarred black face, a deceptive grin, long but neatly kept dreadlocks, and an expensive-looking suit. Maybe he was stylish all-around, including footwear.

"After running through the sex offender database, we came back with a fuckload," said Deb, stopping herself. "Excuse me, an overabundance of hits. We're still combing through the data, but we've extensively looked at the most serious offenders, particularly those with a history and/or convictions of rape or forcible sodomy against women, and we found these two gems."

Debra put two more photos of male suspects on display. One was a Hispanic guy in his late 40s, with a green plaid jacket and a wifebeater, salt-and-pepper hair and goatee, with hair beginning to thin on top. The other was a tall, muscular Caucasian man in his early 30s, with icy blue, crazy looking eyes, and wearing a white polo.

"Suspect number two, Abelardo Ortiz, age 47." Debra continued. "Small-time criminal, big time felon ex-con due to sex offenses, and has been living in the Milander Manor projects in Hialeah since his parole."

"Wasn't he the one who called the police after finding Juno Gregory?" asked a surprised LaGuerta.

"That's correct Captain." replied Debs. "Though we questioned him extensively as a witness, as Batista can attest, and not everything seems to add up."

"How so?" asked LaGuerta. "What's his background anyway?"

"Well for starters, the times on when he say he came across the body conflict." replied Debra. "Turns out he waited an hour before calling the local precinct. Furthermore, he said he was beachcombing but had no metal detector on him, and lied about his convictions history. Turns out he liked to act like a big shot in his youth, and has several drug and assault convictions since he was a teen, but the one that landed him in Coleman State Penitentiary for 20 years was brutally raping and beating his 19-year-old sister when he was 26, ended up turning her into a parapalegic he beat her so hard."

Now I was really starting to hope it would be Ortiz, I could feel my dark passenger drooling. The thought of anyone doing something that cruel, to their own sister nonetheless…there was a special kind of torture on my table awaiting those individuals.

"Last but not least, we have Gomer Pyle here." said Debs. "Former Corporal William "Willie" Proctor Jr., age 34, dishonorably discharged from the U.S. Marines for attempted rape of a female Marine, and conduct unbecoming of a U.S. Marine, all at the ripe age of 20. After his dishonorable discharge, he moved back in with his mother, and was arrested within a year of manslaughter, statutory rape and statutory sodomy after severely beating and strangling an underage prostitute to death in some weird autoerotic asphyxiation scenario. Instead of being convicted, he spent 12 years in the psych ward at Chattahoochee, during which mommy died, and when he got out he was all on his own. Since then, he's been working as a short-order cook at the Caballito del Mar 24 Hour Diner in Overtown, and aside from the occasional drunken bar fight, he's managed to stay out of trouble."

I hid the expression, but in my mind, I felt like Christmas had come early. Three scumbags all in a row, ready for the slicing. But, of course, the logical side of my brain prevailed. I couldn't kill them, not until I'd proved them guilty; anything less would be against Harry's Code.

"It's not much to go on, but it's what we got so far." said Angel. "Alright everyone, class dismissed."

I left the briefing room and started towards the lab.

Time to go on that familiar quest, the quest for the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**PATRICK**

Liberty City, my favorite shithole in Miami. The locals here are so wrapped up in their day-to-day, often illegal, activities, that they don't give you a second thought. Little do they know, that the inside of what appears as shitty apartments on the outside, are as pristine and high end as the apartment I had in New York.

I bring the fake redhead into my apartment, and she looks amazed by what she sees, not expecting such a nice setup in such a rough neighborhood.

I led her into the bedroom area, covered with fresh plastic, and she began to undress a-la-striptease style. I myself stripped down to my underwear, and she sat naked on the plastic-covered futon, beckoning me towards her once again.

"Wait, I've got just the thing." I told her. "Uno momento."

Going over to the portable stereo, I popped a CD into the port, and it queued up to play. As it did, I went over towards her, and she pulled down my underwear, beginning to blow me.

I held the album cover in front of her as she sucked my dick.

"Storm Front, by Billy Joel." I explained to her, though she continued to suck and made no indication she understood. "Probably one of the greatest albums from one of the greatest minds in music, and definitely ranks up there with Huey Louis, Whitney Houston and Phil Collins as the greats of my generation."

I looked down, and instead of seeing the prostitute's face, I saw the face of the woman from the pig station, Detective Debra Morgan. I pictured those hazel eyes, that short, auburn hair, and those luscious lips of hers around my cock. Oh how I'd truly delight in getting my hands on her, fucking her, slitting her from head to toe with a filet knife, maybe flaying her and doing something creative with her skin or hair.

I grabbed the back of the hooker's red hair, pushing my cock deep into her throat as she sucked me, and she had to come up for air a couple times. The CD began with the first song.

"'That's Not Her Style', one of Joel's underrated classics." I explained. "This song was written by Joel as a love letter to his wife, Christina Brinkley, and sends the ultimate 'I know my woman better than you do' message. Rolling Stone critics were particularly harsh at the release of this track, calling it drab and unoriginal, one even saying that he 'expected so much more from such a well known name'; needless to say it didn't score very high in the charts. Smash Hits magazine however was much more insightful in their review, calling it 'touching in Joel's own way', and even had the perceptiveness to catch onto the social commentary contained therein. The talk about dining with 'Argentines and Kuwaitis' took aim at international relations with the US, specifically the 1990 FIFA World Cup Argentina hype, only to be quelled by West Germany, and oddly enough touched on Kuwait right before the first Gulf War."

After a bit of sucking, I mounted her missionary style, and begin sucking and biting on her nipples and breasts hard, while fingering her pussy; she didn't seem to mind me getting rough with her tits. When my mouth was free, I continued my explanation, despite her moaning. Again, the face of Debra Morgan, not some hooker, is what I could see.

"Conformity, especially what was expected from the 80s and early 90s, is a double-edged sword in this track." I explained. "Joel not only is making a statement on the perception and expectation of women of the time, but particularly celebrity women. According to Joel's perception of mainstream society, society believed that all women given celebrity status would be thrill-seeking travelers on a whim, inherently suggesting that perhaps women were more prone to acting rather than thinking beforehand. Sexual promiscuity, pardon the irony, is also a factor here; if you listen to the line about the 'perfect body with Maserati' and 'gave the pilot something extra', there both carry sexual connotations, suggesting that society perceives Brinkley as either a whore, or a sexually revolutionized feminist."

As the song wound down, I made the bitch get on her knees, and began fucking her from behind, grabbing her hips while I did so.

"So you see, this song is not only a love song, but a testimonial." I continued to explain. "It's a testimonial to Billy Joel's faith in his wife, a testimonial to Billy Joel's confidence in knowing who his wife is, and rejection of anything that speaks to the contrary."

The song continued on to its final verses, and I began pounding her heavier, and faster, feeling her pussy squeeze around my shaft despite my protection. I fantasized I was doing this to Debra Morgan, and pretended it was her screaming orgasmically, although without shouting Spanish. After some hard, hot and heavy pumping, I withdrew, making her turn around and swallow it. For a hooker, she seemed wore out pretty quickly, possibly because she could be a junkie also. Then again, I was in better shape than most 20 year olds at my age, and she probably wasn't expecting such a heavy workout.

"You have beautiful red hair." I told her, reaching behind the side of the futon. "Like blood, like fire. You know, blood and fire go together, and some cultures believe fire is the blood of the gods; so when we bleed, we're actually emitting flames. I really think you'll enjoy this next track especially."

"We Didn't Start the Fire", Billy Joel's absolute magnum opus and the most lively, colorful, rich musical and historical masterpiece, began to play. As I reached my hand back from behind the futon, the hooker's eyebrows widened, expecting I was perhaps going to pull a kinky sex toy or something to add to our fun. Her eyebrows became even larger, and her eyeballs wider, when she was it was a vintage jambiya dagger, one of my favorites in my blade collection, especially when it slashed across the front of her throat.

Half-screaming and half-gagging, she tried to hit and kick, causing me to slash at her arms and legs to discourage her. With a well-aimed plunge, I stabbed her in the left rib cage, no doubt hitting a lung, just as Joel sang "Rosenberg's H-Bomb".

"Shut the hell up!" I told her. "You're missing some good context in this song!"

The bitch tried to scream and cry, but she wasn't going anywhere. Billy Joel continued to sing on, past the first refrain, down to "Brooklyn's got a winning team", and by that time I'd chopped off all of this bitch's fingers. To slow her down even further, I punctured her femoral artery in her right leg, in case I needed to bleed her out sooner than later.

"Amazing how the world changes!" I said, laughing maniacally. "Since Billy Joel came screaming into this world, it's like he's saying the world hasn't stopped turning, or burning, and WILL…..NEVER…..STOP!"

Getting weaker, she tried crawling away, only to be met by 3 stabs in the back during the third refrain of the song. I turned her over, looking as the life began to drain from her body.

"Feel that fire dripping out of you?" I said, panting heavily. "Feels like fire poking into you when I stab you?! I THINK what Joel is trying to say is, fire is life, and death, in the human world, and in the end…we all BURRRRRNNNNNN!"

Losing all control, I began stabbing her wildly in the face and torso, until her front side was barely recognizable, like a steak that had been poked or pounded with a mallet too many times. That being done, I grabbed a small hatchet and hacked off her limbs, just as Joel sang "Russians in Afghanistan". When she was fully decapitated, I simply sat back, naked, listening to the remainder of the song.

Making note of where I kept the bleach, and knowing where my next dump site would be, as I had planned, I smiled and deeply exhaled, covered in blood, as the last refrain played.

"We didn't start the fire! It was always burning since the world's been turning! We didn't start the fire! No we didn't light it but we tried to fight it!"


	6. Chapter 6

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**DEXTER**

With the remainder of my shift, and my necessary work being practically signed, sealed and delivered, I delved into our suspects. I decided to go for both the easiest and the hardest suspect first, Rabid Tellier. Running him through the databases, he was definitely hard-handed with the ladies, several assaults on his "hoes" and a few domestic violence arrests from girlfriends, both scenarios the charges were always dropped, but nothing came up with sexual assault; doesn't mean he hasn't done it. By the looks of his photographs, he was the picture of something out of Steroids Magazine; enormous muscles, arms covered in tattoos, and an ever-present "I mean business" look on his face. In the pictures I'd seen he was definitely stylish, but nothing too flashy it seemed. Finally, I delved into prison records, and was able to get a more up close and personal look at Rabid Tellier.

I read Tellier's prison intake form to myself, making note of any details that struck out.

"Name, Ronel Francoise Tellier." I said quietly. "Age 37, Birthplace, Jacmel Haiti, Race, Black or African American. Height, 5 foot 5 inches, weight 121 pounds."

I was surprised by the photos and what was on the intake form. Based on the intake and discharge forms, this guy was a lightweight, but still had a worse reputation than Leatherface in the Liberty City Miami Area. After reviewing the information, I found what I was looking for.

"Shoe size…" I said "Seven and a half."

Maybe it didn't completely rule things out, but based on what I had to go on, it did for now. With the legal and gang protection this guy had in place, there was no way I could get near him or his dwelling to get a closer look. Plus, being that he was on parole, it was more likely Miami Metro or the FBI would be able to bust him before I could get to him. So, I decided Ronel wasn't likely in the mix, but somehow I had a feeling he'd eventually end up on my table someday.

All the while, those 9.5 Salvatore Ferragamo shoes kept nagging at me, and I kept finding myself wondering if I should figure Patrick Batemen into this.

"You only met the man once Dexter." Harry said. "Being conceited, or having expensive taste in shoes for that matter, doesn't mean he is a murderer."

"Right, I get that." I told Harry. "Don't worry, I'm not deviating from The Code, I just can't seem to shake him from my mind. Besides, the whole department appears to be going on a series of hunches with the suspects in mind."

With a heavy sigh, I focused in on the remaining two suspects, whom I would have much easier access to.

The following day I drove down to the Millander Manor Housing Projects, intent on paying Abelardo Ortiz's home a visit. Lurking in the open stairwells of the complex, I wore a hoodie, making sure my mannerisms matched those of your typical addict. When I saw Ortiz, along with several others residents of the Project, catch the bus to commute to work, I waited until the coast was clear and picked my way into his apartment.

I ran Ortiz's file before showing up at the housing project, and since he'd been on parole, everything seemed to be sunshine and rainbows. He worked as a custodian in an office building in Baywood Park, so if he were doing any beachcombing it would have had to have been there, as there are obviously no beaches in Hialeah. Obviously Ortiz was a bad liar, and wasn't supposed to be in the area where he found Juno Gregory. It was up to me to find out the "why", and whether or not the "why" constituted a one-way ticket to Dexter's table.

Good thing working in homicide makes one have strong constitutions, otherwise I'd have puked when the smell hit my nose. Your typical "I don't give a rat's ass about myself or anything" hoarder never throws anything away. Fast food boxes littered the floor of his shitty apartment, the television was left on, blaring Latino soccer. At least the furniture appeared to be cleared.

I was meticulous as I combed the living room for clues, looking for anything that might connect him to Juno Gregory's murder. Beating and raping your sister into paraplegia….that's got to fall under The Code somewhere. I'd need to give it some thought; after all, I encompassed pedophiles as qualifying for my table, guilty or not, maybe I could make a place for scum like Ortiz.

Not finding anything in the living room, I moved on to the kitchen. The sink was full of filthy dishes, despite the fact that there was a dishwasher. Opening the dishwasher, I found nothing of interest, other than more stinking, filthy dishes; the thing was probably broken anyhow. I searched the cabinets, finding silverware and butter knives, and a decent steak knife set. It was possible to kill someone with these, but carving them up, much more difficult. On one of the counter tops, there was a deluxe knife set, the kind you give someone as a wedding present. By the amount of dust that had collected upon them, they looked as though they hadn't been touched in weeks. There appeared to be a very large vegetable knife, a serrated meat knife, and a cleaver, all 3 of which could have been used to decapitate Juno Gregory. Still, the amount of dust collected couldn't have accumulated from the time she was murdered to now. These were not the murder weapons.

Having found nothing anywhere else in the house, I saved the bedroom for last, and it was just as cluttered as the rest of the apartment. Empty or half-drunken bottles of tequila covered the two nightstands next to his hand-me-down queen sized bed. Looking under the bed, I found a large shotgun, but no blades that I could see. In a neighborhood like this, it was easy to see why someone would keep one handy for protection. I went through the closets, both top and bottom, and found nothing but musty clothing and work uniforms. I took another look at the nightstands, both of which had locked drawers. Whatever was in here, Ortiz didn't want anyone to find. With a quick pick, I managed to pop open the first drawer on the nightstand that was to the left of the bed.

Meth.

Ortiz had a baggie of crystal meth, plus a glass meth pipe, inside the first drawer. I popped open the larger, deeper drawer below it, and sure enough, there was more meth, this time about 5 full baggies. I had a feeling that this was a clear violation of Ortiz's parole.

Going over to the second nightstand, I found needles and heroin in the top drawer, with more heroin in the bottom drawer. Also in the bottom drawer, I found a crumpled up piece of paper. Uncrinkling the paper, I revealed a message written in black sharpie marker.

"4.5 $ bolsas. Las Sirenas. Miercoles 4a. Pepito"

Reading it over a couple times, I realized that unfortunately for me, Ortiz was not the murderer.

"Pepito" was a drug dealer or middleman of sorts, and according to this note, was selling dollar bags, meaning $100 worth, of whatever type of drug he was peddling; the term was used primarily for marijuana, but in recent years it's also been used in the selling of meth, heroin, cocaine, almost any common street drug. The note appeared to have Ortiz meet them at 4am in Las Sirenas Park, the same place where Juno Gregory's body was dumped.

"That why he lied about the time, and what he was doing." I said to myself. "He was buying drugs, didn't want the police to know about it, and probably danced around the actual time he was in the area."

They did search Ortiz, and didn't find any drugs or weapons on him, telling me he either ditched the drugs somewhere or both he and/or the dealer came across Juno Gregory's body and the transaction never took place.

Two down, one more to go. Or was it two down, two to go? I kept coming back to the impression Bateman made on me when I saw him, and those designer shoe prints.

But before I could entertain any Hail Marys of Bateman being our guy, it was time for me to check out Willie Proctor. I slipped out of Ortiz's apartment, and got back on the road, heading towards Overtown.

I ran Proctor's address through the database before I went on my canvassing, and he lived in an apartment building not even a block from where the diner was. Being that I'd skipped breakfast, and that I needed to make sure he wasn't home before looking over his apartment, I headed over to the diner for something to eat.

French toast, bacon and sunny-side up eggs. The breakfast tasted like it'd been dipped in ash, but I choked it down, and managed to put a smile on my face. A woman in her early 50s with curly black hair in a diner waitress's uniform was running the counter and the cashier.

"My compliments to the chef, whomever that is." I told the waitress.

"Hey Willie, you got someone out here who actually likes your food!" the waitress shouted to the back of the kitchen.

"You don't have to bother him." I explained.

"Oh it's OK hon, we're pretty slow today." said the waitress. "I'm Diane Kovacks, I own the place."

"Roger Henderson." I replied, shaking her hand. "Sounds like you've got some great staff here."

"He's one of the best cooks we have." replied Diane. "Always helping out and filling in on any shift."

"You know, I was working very late last Wednesday, about 4am, and was here." I explained. "Is he the one I have to thank for one of the best burgers I've had?"

"Yep, that's him alright." said Diane. "I remember that night too, one of those damn Cubans I'd hired as a cook was a no-call no-show for the third night in a row, so Willie shows up and saves the day as usual. Wonderful guy!"

As the conversation wrapped up, out came Willie Proctor Jr., an enormously tall and muscular former marine. He looked exactly like he did in his picture, except for the cook's apron and paper hat he wore on his head.

"I'm told you're the one I have to thank for 2 great meals." I said to Willie, extending my hand. "Roger Henderson, Security Guard for Yeomen Security Services."

"William George Proctor Junior sir." said Willie in a military tone of voice. "But you may call me Willie if you like, sir."

"Sure Willie." I replied, feeling this guy's grip on my hand like a steel vice. "This was one of the best breakfasts I've had in awhile, and last Wednesday you made an amazing burger. I just wanted to give you my compliments and thank you for two great meals!"

"You're very welcome sir, and thank you for the compliments, sir." replied Willie. "Happy to be here, proud to serve, sir."

"Plus, a great attitude like that, no wonder they like you here." I said. "Get to go home soon?"

"Negative sir, today is an afternoon shift sir." replied Willie.

"In that case, I hope it goes by smoothly for you." I replied. "Well it's time for me to go, but it was really great meeting you Willie, and I'll definitely be back for more."

"Pleased to have met you, sir." said Willie, crushing/shaking my hand one more time. "Looking forward to seeing you again, sir."

As Willie went back to the kitchen area, I paid the woman, and went out to my car.

"Well, that takes care of all 3." I told Harry.

"Don't be so quick to wrap things up Dexter." replied Harry. "You haven't even taken a look at Tellier's place, and there's no telling when Willie might have had a lunch break to slip off and commit murder."

"I can't place Tellier at the scene." I told Harry. "Besides, there's no way I can get near the guy right now; his home is like a fortress, and the Feds are watching his every move since he's been out. As for Willie, you make a good point, I'll check out his apartment."

I drove to the apartment building where Willie resided. Turns out it was the next to last floor at the top. 16D, I found his apartment door. I picked my way inside.

I was glad to see this was a complete opposite from the hell hole I'd just been in at Ortiz's place. Proctor's place was immaculate, and everything was organized so well even the worst of the worst OCD personality couldn't have done a better job. I would need to be extremely careful taking things out and putting them back, otherwise he might know someone was in here.

Call me paranoid, but I looked around for a video camera, including stuffed animals and articles that could have had a nannycam inside them. Fortunately, there were none.

The apartment was very small, with just a kitchen/living area, and a tiny bedroom, with closets that could barely hold anything. This wouldn't take very long at all.

The kitchen area had a multitude of blades, which could mean something. I ran my mini DNA light over them, nothing. Whenever he used these blades last to cut something up, it wasn't recently.

The living area turned up basically nil, not even any change in the extra-small couch.

I went into the bedroom, to find an army cot, a US Marines flag on the wall, and several military issue firearms. There was a samurai sword set on a dresser, but a DNA light scan turned up nothing. In the middle of the room was a video camera with a tripod, and a TV across from the cot. There appeared to be several home movies. I played each one, but it all was the same. Willie in his Marine uniform, marching and singing Marine hymns, until he was finished or someone knocked at the door, likely to complain about the marching.

All that were in the drawer were clothes, and then, I noticed the bookshelf. Most of them were military strategy and history books, but there was the top section, that stood out to me, particularly its titles.

"Breaking the Cycle: Free Yourself from Sex Addiction, Porn Obsession, and Shame, by George Collins." I read, thumbing through the titles. "The Storm of Sex Addiction: Rescue and Recovery, by Connie Lofgreen. Sex Addiction and Recovery – How to Cure Addiction to Sex and Pornography and Free Yourself for Life, by Isabel Chaves. Pornography: Slaying the Dragon (Resources for Changing Lives), by David Powlison."

OK, so Proctor definitely had issues with porn and sex addiction, but this looked like someone who was trying to stop their addiction, not feed it.

On top of the bookshelf, I saw two metal chips, recognizing what they were from the time I feigned drug abuse with Rita. But these were different from the chips I saw at my 12 step meetings; one said "SAA 2 Years", and the other said "PAA 2 Years".

Willie had been out of psychiatric care for 2 years, and it appeared since then, he was trying to suppress any sexual or pornographic urges since. The chips were from Sex Addicts Anonymous and Pornography Addicts Anonymous. There wasn't a single picture in the apartment of so much as a woman in a bikini. Plus, the owner at the diner can account for Willie's whereabouts during Juno Gregory's murder.

This wasn't our guy either.

As I exited the apartment, I pulled a business card out of my pocket, and dialed the number on the card.

"Bateman Securities, Nina speaking, how may I help you?" the receptionist answered.

"Um, yes, my name is Dexter Morgan, and I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Bateman as soon as possible." I replied. "I'm a member of Miami Metro Homicide Division, he gave me his card when he was at our building. I'd been doing some thinking, and I could really use his services."

"Oh yes, I'll be happy to assist you!" said Nina. "How does tomorrow afternoon, 1pm, sound to you?"

"That's perfect, right on my lunch hour." I replied. "I look forward to seeing him."

"Excellent, we'll see you then!" replied Nina.

I hopped in my vehicle, and drove out of the neighborhood, finally content that I could finally satisfy this powerful hunch about Bateman.

Not having even gone a quarter of a mile, my telephone rang, and it was Batista.

"Dex, we need you in Liberty City." said Batista. "It's Cuisinart, he left us another one."

The sooner I could bust, or rule out, Patrick Bateman, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism, and animal cruelty/violence

**PATRICK**

There's nothing like an intense kill to make me want to sleep things off.

After the cleanup and the dumping of the body, I drove home and nestled into my emperor-sized, satin-sheet bed.

I cancelled my morning appointments with Nina, my underqualified yet beautiful, receptionist, which really weren't all that many to begin with; a newlywed couple that just came into a big inheritance, and a desperate ex-husband trying to salvage what his greedy bitch of an ex-wife left for him.

I told Nina to tell my clients I was called away due to "urgent deadlines that moved up", and to try to fit them in this afternoon or evening.

By the tone of her voice, she probably thought I was in the throes of a bad hangover. I wasn't hung over, not really, at least not from alcohol. When it came down to it, I was still intoxicated, riding my blood high.

After awhile of almost orgasmic reveling in last night's memories while in bed, I woke up, and went down for brunch in my kitchen. My daytime housekeeper Antonia must've known what time I'd get up, and she had one of my favorite breakfasts ready; a Monte Cristo breakfast sandwich, with raspberry preserves, fresh lychee, and a tall cup of freshly ground El Injerto Guatemalan coffee; you could even smell the freshness. She even threw in a side of Spanish style eggs, her specialty, for extra measure. For most of my adult life, I'd resigned myself to the comforts I've come to know and love, however since moving to Miami, a little bit of the culture has rubbed off onto me. Not the filthy, lawnmowing Wetback side of the culture, but more of the aristocratic, Hispanic Don side of it. I paid them better than what they'd be making with anyone else, still just a drop in the bucket as far as my pocketbook was concerned, but even within the bowels of human culture I could still afford the shiniest of kidney stones that could be offered.

"Muy bien Antonia." I complimented the help. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Gracias Señor Patrick." replied Antonia. "Only the best for mi más jefe preferido!"

I looked it up after she always made a point of saying that, and it turned out it meant something like "my favorite boss in the world" or some sappy term of endearment like that. It was a shit language, but I had to make sure the help wasn't insulting me.

Learning a little bit of Spanish did help me out with discovering that once, when my previous housekeeper, a hot little Cuban by the name of Carla Echemendia, decided to try and pull the wool over my eyes by calling me a "maricón", and claiming it was a term used in Cuba to describe a tall, handsome man. What a naïve little cunt of a Spic! Did she not even realize I would do my homework and learn she just called me a faggot?!

Needless to say, I fired her from my employ, and later on, fired her from her life. She didn't even make it a quarter of the way home, and I had her back at one of my apartments. I made sure to rape the living shit out of her first before I punished her for the insult. There's nothing more humility-inducing than making someone swallow oven cleaner.

After breakfast, I turned on the television, and turned it to WPLG Local 10 to keep a pulse on Miami's news. Once again, I made the top headlines, with my dirty deeds. It's a pity I can't advertise my work, I'd love to sign autographs up and down the block for adoring fans. Yet, this was the real world.

I sipped on my coffee as I relaxed on the couch in my bathrobe, listening to Jen Herrera narrate my stardom to the public.

"Another mutilated body has turned up in Liberty City Miami." reported Herrera. "The body of 20-year-old Cuban prostitute, Rosa Hernandez, was discovered in an alley behind a self-service laundromat at 12:20pm this afternoon."

I knew that alley was a good idea. All I'd really seen near that laundromat were the occasional junkies and homeless drunks, which I also enjoy killing on the fly when I'm not in a hurry. I suppressed the urge to laugh out loud, and I wasn't even sure what I should be laughing for; the fact that I dumped her in a city so callous no one even bothered to do anything until the afternoon, the fact that it took police that long to get to the scene, or simply because of my cunning and guile in getting away with it.

They say laugh, and the world laughs with you. In many of my cases however, laugh, and people might see you for the sick fuck that you truly are.

"Police are not releasing any specifics at this time." continued Herrera. "Miami Metro's Captain Maria LaGuerta declined to comment when asked if this could be the work of an alleged serial killer, dubbed the 'Cuisinart Killer' due to the brutal mutilation of the victims found."

I began changing channels.

I despised the name the media gave me. "Cuisinart Killer", how fucking unoriginal and Martha Stewart! They might as well have said I'm the bastard son of Julia Childs, the very one responsible for the birth of that conga-line of shit machines that serve as household appliances! It's truly a sad day and age when I'm not even named after a reliable product line.

Black and Decker, the Black and Decker Demon, now that's a name I could really sink my teeth into. Of every savory dish I've ever tasted, whether prepared by the help, or by some doe-eyed woman who thinks I'm going to marry her, Black and Decker has never let me down in any way. Anyone who's even scratched the surface of the brand's history knows Black and Decker has been here longer, and stood all tests of time, which Cuisinart has yet to face. Plus, the gender identity implications to boot! Black and Decker started with a drill, not some hand-mixer any bimbo could operate. Even in this sordid century, where the men are women and the women are men, Black and Decker stands as the last bastion of manhood for any man forced into the kitchen.

Cuisinart, the nerve! Not only an attack on my manhood, but a shitty product line at that! I wish I could revive the name they gave me back in New York; the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper! They may not have known me personally, but they knew of me, and knew I was to be respected! Death, and one of the manliest US Presidents alive, wrapped up in a terrifying package. Who could ask for anything more?

"Enough bad news for one day." I said, speaking in Antonia's direction "No más malas noticias, am I right?"

"Claro que sí, Señor Patrick!" replied Antonia, who had apparently been watching the newscast over my shoulder, and she made the sign of the cross. "¡Ay Dios mío!"

Again, I had to suppress a laugh. I always got a kick out of how naively religious these people were. A quick motion of the hands, flash of the beads, and all of the sudden the big bad killers and drug dealers go away. No wonder we were top of the food chain and not them.

As I enjoyed the various programming, Antonia brought in the telephone for me, which was Nina, who pushed my scheduled clients back towards the late afternoon, first appointment at 2:45pm asking if I would be in. I gave her an affirmative answer, which gave me about an hour and a half before I had to be ready.

She also informed me that Derek, the Blood Spatter Analyst from Miami Metro, had scheduled an appointment with me tomorrow. I was truly looking forward to that, maybe pick his brain about his work, if not see it firsthand like he promised, now or in the future.

About that time, the doorbell rang. I stopped Antonia from answering, as I anticipated this arrival for quite some time. I opened the door, and a Cuban courier, with a large box with holes in the side, greeted me with a smile.

"Meester…Bait-mans?" asked the courier. "Patrick Bait-mans?"

"Patrick Bateman, yes." I replied. "You have what I requested? Específicamente?"

"Oh sí, yes yes Mister Bait-mans." replied the brainless Spic. "Conejo…very, very big, like you específicamente."

"Muchas gracias." I said, signing the courier form, and taking the box.

I'd always hated animals, and adopted a pure Descartesan attitude when it came to them, for the most part; they were stupid, they had no feelings, any resemblance of pain or suffering was a programmed response, and we as humans could do with them what we like.

Yet, my faith was shaken, when I met my new best friend, Bundy.

Fernando called me out to the landscaping area one day, complaining of a "lagarto" in the hedges. I came out, and that's when I saw him; a large tegu, fighting for supremacy in his kingdom of hedges.

Before I could even raise my foot to crush his skull, the creature lunged at me without a single fear in the world. Most animals I've killed, dogs and cats mostly, become ferocious out of fear, but not Bundy. He was letting me know, he was king of these hedges, and I had to go through him; the first time an animal has shown aggression towards me out of sure challenge than fear. I couldn't help but respect that.

Wrapping him up in a burlap bag later, I brought him into my home, despite Fernando's warning of how dangerous and environmentally harmful he was for Florida. With a bit of research from a pet shop, the tegu had the best setup money could buy; heat, shelter, food, he wanted for nothing. The fun began when I fed him a large rat, which he thanked me for by putting on a gruesome display of ripping and thrashing as he dug into his prey. With ferocity like that, I named him after one of my most admired, and brutal, serial killers.

Today, Bundy was in for a special treat. After hearing repeated reports of tegus appearing in certain areas, followed by people's dogs and cats disappearing, I decided to test Bundy's abilities. Over the internet, I ordered a New Zealand/Flemish Giant hybrid, a whole hell of a lot of rabbit.

I opened Bundy's enclosure, to which he greeted me with a territorial hiss.

"Hello friend." I told him. "How about a feast?"

I opened the crate the rabbit came in, and had to dump the rabbit out onto the floor of Bundy's enclosure, as the fucking thing refused to leave the safety of its crate. As if it knew the danger it was in, it made a soft growl/honk noise, as Bundy approached, tongue flickering. Having tasted the air, and deciding what it was. Bundy made his move.

A quick strike, and the rabbit shrieked, pulling away, which only resulted in Bundy ripping a great deal of skin and hair from its body. The rabbit scampered and scrambled to find a way out, but Bundy ran and lunged again, this time grabbing an ear, resulting in the rabbit running and resisting again, and the ear being ripped off. Having never encountered a rabbit before, I could see why Bundy was still finding his bearings. Finally, with a decisive lunge, Bundy latched on to the rabbit's skull, and held fast, as the rabbit writhed and squirmed, eventually breaking its neck due to its struggling and Bundy's iron grip. His prey finally vanquished, Bundy began to tear into the rabbit, and strip away flesh.

What a majestic way to start my work afternoon!


	8. Chapter 8

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**DEXTER**

With the time I had the night before, and in the day right before my appointment with a potential killer, I delved into my research. I was surprised by some areas, and least surprised in other areas, with what I was able to find.

Patrick Bateman, a wealthy brat born into money, who climbed the corporate ladder on the shoulders of nepotism to his success. Bateman's father trailblazed his way to success from Connecticut to New York, started his family in Long Island, and put all of his heart and most of his finances into the success of his sons, Patrick and Sean. Sean was a ne'er do well junkie/drug dealer out of Camden College, and Bateman's mother, last seen, was on her way to a sanitarium.

A crackhead and a serial killer, how proud these parents must be.

It also said he married his former secretary from Pierce and Pierce, Jean, and they had a son, Patrick Jr., together. I hoped his son was nothing like his father, just as I hoped Harrison would never inherit my Dark Passenger.

As for Patrick, daddy's influence and money got him a nice degree from Harvard Business School, and almost a day after graduation, Patrick was planted in New York and working on Wall Street. His success afforded him a luxurious apartment in the American Garden Building on New York's Upper West Side, and he worked for the investment firm of Pierce and Pierce. Traditionally, you start at the bottom and work your way up, but not Bateman; like the other rich brats whose daddies had some sort of significant sway, he started in the middle, to work his way up from there. Usually in a place like Pierce and Pierce, when an old executive died, guys like Patrick and his pals were the shoe-in candidate pool for the spot. Within a couple of short years, either the old guys kicked the bucket or were put into forced retirement, because Patrick and his buddies soon found themselves in VP spots. 7 years after Bateman began working there, Pierce and Pierce was bought out by Daiwa Securities Group, Inc., to become part of the Daiwa Capital Markets America Limited family, ironically brokered by Pierce and Pierce's VP of Mergers and Acquisitions, Patrick Bateman. As part of his role in the merger, accompanied by a hefty sum, and compensation package, DSG Inc. appointed President of Daiwa Capital Markets America, Manhattan Branch's division, where he stayed on for 15 years until given a golden parachute after the branch was sold. From that point on, he took long-term temporary executive assignments with StraussGroup Inc., and before coming to Miami, he was Interim Vice-President for Barclay Investment's Investment Banking Division.

I checked all our databases, local and national, for any signs of criminal behavior, checked all the violent offender lists. Patrick's fingerprints were on file, but there was nothing that had them present at the scene of any crimes. Patrick had no convictions, but did have a couple arrests for DWI, which were reduced down to non-moving violations, no doubt the work of some high-priced lawyer. Furthermore, Patrick had no record of any violent crimes, suspicion or otherwise, but did seem to be involved in some dastardly white-collar crime schemes.

Patrick's name came up in 1 arrest record, and in several "person of interest" cases, when it came to investment fraud. The SEC seemed to be familiar with Bateman, starting at Pierce and Pierce, when several of Bateman's accounts, along with others, were flagged when the company came under investigation for fraudulent accounting. As in many of these scenarios, lower-level guys went down, but Bateman and his breed stayed on top. Bateman's name came up again during the first Gulf War as a person of interest in a foreign currency scam which costs its investors billions, and Bateman managed to beat those charges as well. There were several insider trading charges, fines paid by Bateman here and there, and he was even connected to the Lehman Brothers bankruptcy, which oddly enough, was bought out by Barclay Investments, who hired Bateman after everything settled down.

Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for Bateman, white-collar crime did not make him a candidate for my table.

The murders that were happening in Miami, none of them started until after Bateman arrived, evidence clue number one. But this alone wasn't enough, I needed more.

The only thing remotely interesting as far as any "person of interest" cases with Bateman went, was one involving a missing person from Pierce and Pierce. It turns out that Patrick Bateman was at one point a person of interest in the missing person's case of Paul Allen, a fellow VP. According to a Detective Donald Kimball's investigation, Bateman and Allen had some interaction shortly before Allen's disappearance.

Still trying to connect the pieces, I did a search on "murders", "mutilation", "New York" and "80s", hoping I'd find something. To my luck and surprise, something did turn up.

From the late 80s to late 90s, there was a brutal series of murders attributed to a killer known as the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper, whose primary target was young, attractive women, most of them call girls and prostitutes. It started out as women going missing, with the majority of women disappearing from Roosevelt Avenue in Queens, a street rampant with prostitutes. As time and technology for law enforcement developed, the bodies started to show up, many of them mutilated in a brutal and hideous fashion. The biggest find was a place the papers dubbed as the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper's "Chophouse", a tenement apartment building in the Rockaways that had probably been long forgotten by its owner for years, waiting to be sold for development. There, they found floors of dead women, body parts arranged as "art", and blades and tools of all sorts, used for the tearing of flesh. This was a big find, and even Frank Lundy was part of the investigation back then!

Supposedly, the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper was caught some 4 years later after the discovery, a metropolitan sewer worker by the name of Anthony Hogan, who killed 5 NYU College Students in a similar fashion. Hogan plead guilty to all 5 counts, plus plead guilty for the crimes of the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper, and spent 6 years in Sing Sing, before he was put to death by lethal injection.

I was able to access some of the forensics photos, and compared them to the photos of the Miami victims. I put them under my Dark Passenger's microscope, who would discover any differences, however subtle, much quicker than the average investigator would. Although variations were slight, the style of the cuts and cleaves of the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper were 89% in alignment with the Miami victims' photos. I looked at Hogan's photos, comparing them both to the early Roosevelt Avenue Ripper killings, and the Miami victims; the results were interesting, as the Hogan photos aligned only 80% with the original Roosevelt Avenue Ripper photos, and with the Miami photos, Hogan's cuts aligned only about 69%.

Anthony Hogan may have killed those college girls, but as far as him being the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper, he was simply a copycat killer who managed to fool the police.

My watch started beeping, letting me know it was close to my lunch hour, and my meeting with Patrick Bateman. I was curious to see if he would try to make me money, or fleece me like some of his past unsuspecting victims.

"Dexter Morgan?" said Bateman, looking at his paper and then looking at me with a slight look of surprise. "Well look who it is?! Come on back buddy!"

I followed Patrick Bateman to his office, and it was evident he'd forgotten my name but not my face. Before sitting down he gave my hand a firm shake, which I returned in kind.

"Dexter Morgan, Blood Spatter Analyst, great to have you in my office!" said Bateman as he sat behind his desk. "So, what bring you in today?"

"Well, after you gave me your card I did some thinking about what you said." I replied. "I'm a single dad, I've got some money I've been looking to get the most out of, and I basically want my kid to want for nothing should anything happen to me. I've heard about every life insurance pitch and similar products, but I need something with more teeth."

"Dexter, you know the American Dream well." replied Bateman. "I've got a son myself, and I've never wanted him to want for anything either, which is why I've busted ass my entire fatherly life to make that happen for him. When our wives up and leave us, it's a hell of an adjustment."

What an assuming jerk.

"My wife didn't…divorce me." I replied. "She was murdered by the Trinity Killer."

Bateman looked mortified, but I could tell it was fake mortification. Killer or not, Bateman was certainly a superficial phony when it came to trying to connect with people.

"Oh, my God Dexter, please forgive me!" replied Bateman. "I'm so terribly sorry, what a prick of me to assume you were divorced! I remember hearing about the Trinity Killer, never did find the guy did they?"

"No, they didn't." I said flatly.

"Oh there I go again, Jesus Patrick!" said Bateman, overdoing it. "I'm exceedingly sorry for your loss, I don't mean to rub salt in any wounds. Here, my peace offering."

Bateman opened his desk drawer and offered me a cigar. I took it, giving him a nod of thanks. Definitely a genuine Cuban; living in Miami, with one of the biggest Cuban populations in the world outside Cuba, you get to recognize the reals from the fakes.

"You don't have to smoke it here, but you can if you like." said Bateman.

"I'll save it for later tonight, thank you." I replied, putting it in my top coat pocket.

"So Dexter, I'm going to throw some tough questions at you, but they're really for the best." said Bateman. "With my new clients, I always ask 4 questions; 1) what are your finances like?, 2) do you have any interests as far as investing goes?, 3) what are your ultimate goals, and 4) how big of a risk would you be willing to assume to reach those goals as fast as possible?"

I answered his questions, truthfully for the most part, but not giving away any crucial personal information. At the same time, I pretended to be naïve about investments, to see how he would react. My story was that Rita left me a sum in the amount of millions, which she inherited from her rich father, and I'd just been sitting on it this entire time collecting interest from the bank. Bateman seemed to drool upon hearing the word "millions", after asking me what the hell I'm doing working with that kind of money, and proceeded to advise me.

After some back and forth question and answer between him and I, and the whole "getting to know you" façade that a lot of sales professionals put on, Bateman began talking about various securities, mutual funds and hedge funds, where my money might be best allocated. I didn't have millions, I just wanted him to think I did. He pushed several pieces of fund research documents in front of me, which I looked over, and pretended not to be satisfied with the information he had.

"You know, this really sounds great, what you've shown me thus far." I replied. "But I've got to admit, I'm a person who likes a lot, and I mean a LOT, of choices. I was wondering if you had any other investments available I might be able to look at, if nothing else, take home?"

"Sure, no problem." replied Bateman. "I've got tons! Tell you what, let me go run off some copies of what I have, and I'll bring them right back to you."

"Yeah, that'd be great, thank you." I said. "Take your time, the more the better."

"Excellent, I'll be right back." replied Bateman.

Bateman left the room, leaving me there alone, which is exactly what I was hoping for.

I searched around inside his desk, and thus far found nothing of interest. Just financial documents, office supplies, and a list of foreclosures in the Miami and surrounding areas. Apparently Patrick Bateman was in to flipping houses as well.

When I got to the bottom drawers, the right-hand side drawer was open, however the left-hand side drawer was not. Something was in here that Bateman didn't want people to see, and knowing a guy like Bateman, if he was renting the building he wouldn't leave anything out in the open for any landlord to get their hands on. Using the lockpick kit I brought with me, I picked the desk drawer, and popped it open to see its contents.

I noticed a black datebook, which I opened, and flipped through the pages. There were definitely not any dates listed, but every page was covered in drawings; drawing of women performing depraved, sexual acts, mostly involving torture, and women being killed and hacked up in a most hideous fashion. Guns, knives, every kind of weapon you could think of, was used to kill these imaginary women, and the details drawn were extra-gory. No investment banker in their right mind would have something like this in their documents.

I continued to flip through the hack-and-slash picture show, and on the very last page, I saw the only thing that seemed relevant to a datebook; names and addresses.

There were only 6, and they were on the very back of the page. Each address had a name, and what appeared to be a license plate, to go with it; Patrick Bateman with New York Plates in Fisher Island, Keith Norwood with Florida Plates in Hialeah, Martin Connolly with Georgia Plates in Opa-Locka, Michael Downing with Florida Plates in Overtown, Paul Allen with Florida Plates in Liberty City.

This one struck with me; Paul Allen, the name of his peer at Pierce and Pierce who disappeared. I made a point to investigate this one first out of all of them, and I saw the last name on the list.

Sidney Liebowitz, with Florida Plates, in Golden Beach.

So far, Bateman was becoming more and more the likely suspect to be the killer. I jotted down the addresses on a notebook, and was about to put everything back, when I noticed something at the very bottom, far end of the drawer.

It was a key ring with a set of keys. There were 4 keys on the keyring, each key was labeled with a name, and a 5-digit number. I observed the keys, recognizing the last names; Norwood, Connolly, Downing, and Allen. As I soon derived, the 5-digit number underneath the keys was a zip code. I jotted them down, wondering where Bateman's and Liebowitz's keys were.

Digging at the bottom, I found Liebowitz's key. It was connected to a keychain, depicting Santa Muerte. Santa Muerte was a figure not to be taken lightly in Miami, especially within the Hispanic communities. There was something behind the Liebowitz address, something big.

Once finished searching the drawer, I put everything back in its place, re-adjusted the lock mechanism so it was locked again, and soon enough, Bateman came in with a list of different investment options for me.

Feigning appreciation, I thanked him for his time, scooped up all the investment options, and exited the office, saying I'd "sleep on it". Before exiting the office however, I made note of Bateman's shoes.

"Mr. Bateman, I have to say, I really like those shoes." I said. "I could really use a pair myself for going out. What are they, Geox?"

Patrick chuckled, as if I didn't know my ass from my elbow.

"These bad boys are Salvatore Ferragamos." replied Bateman. "Pricey, but you can get them wholesale at certain outlets."

"Simply amazing." I said with fake admiration. "I wonder if they'd fit me. I'm about an 8."

"These would probably be a bit big on you friend." said Bateman. "I'm a nine and a half myself. Anyway, good meeting you, we'll talk soon!"

Having left his office, I went back to Miami Metro, finished my work for the day in double-time, and left at about 3pm.

Looking at the addresses in Bateman's book, all but 2 had a common theme; they were located in some of the shittiest neighborhoods in Miami. As for the Fisher Island address, I guessed it was Bateman's personal residence, and the Golden Beach address, that one really stuck out, especially with the Santa Muerte keychain.

Once I finished up early at Miami Metro, I hit the road, plugging in the address to Sidney Liebowitz's house, which was about 25 minutes north of the station. Having glanced at Bateman's calendar on his computer during my search, it looked like his last appointment was at 5p, which if taken an entire hour, would give me plenty of time to get in and get out.

The property wasn't much to look at; a beach-front bungalow, charming design, which looked as though a couple of retirees owned it at one point. It was in a patch of beach that was fairly secluded from the rest of the populace, and no security cameras or alarms, so breaking in would be easy enough, which I did quickly.

The living area, nothing out of the ordinary, however there was a deluxe entertainment center, with a DVD player, and lots of unmarked DVDs. Popping a DVD into the player, I watched what was being filmed.

It was Bateman, having sex with a blonde-haired woman, eventually getting rough with her, even to the point where she hung him from his bed sheets until he gave her the signal to stop. No murder though. I played a couple more DVDs for a short time, and the results were similar; Bateman taking place in some depraved sex act, probably with a prostitute, but never actually killing them.

Leaving the DVDs alone for the time being, I searched 2 of the 3 bedrooms, to find nothing of interest; one bedroom was full of CDs of 80s music, and the other was your typical, boring guestroom. It was the third door where I would find what I needed.

The door was locked tight, but opened it, and found the smoking gun I was looking for.

The wall was plastered with newspaper articles of murders; both from the Roosevelt Street Ripper, and from serial killers throughout the years. A bookshelf was full of crime novels and forensic books; there was even a book on blood spatter analysis. Handcuffs were chained to the bed, and littered on the floor I could see various S&M devices, a wire coat hanger, and a whip with razor blades at the end.

It was the dresser that caught my attention the most. It had an arch-shaped mirror, and within that mirror, where locks of hair, each one held together by a small bow. I had a feeling these were locks from his victims. To the left of the dresser, there was a computer with the Internet open, and a web browser open to , showing a profile with the username NYPBSadist; no doubt he was trolling the internet to find girls into his sick lifestyle, and possibly unsuspecting victims.

Across the bed, there was a television, with a DVD player, and a stack of blank DVDs yet again. I played the first one, which started out a lot like the others, Bateman fucking some girl, this time it was a blonde Asian woman; but all of the sudden, Bateman smashed the girl's mouth into the wall, breaking her teeth, blood beginning to flow, and she started to scream. Bateman proceeded to grab her by her ponytail, and beat her with a stick covered in nails. Wherever this was done, it wasn't done at this location; it looked like some scummy apartment in the other addresses he had listed under those other names. As the video proceeded, Bateman broke the girls arms and legs, and drug her into a dingy bathroom, tossing her in the tub like a sack of laundry. He left the camera running, as she screamed in pain for help, and then you could hear the revving of something gas-powered. Bateman had come back, this time with a gas-powered hedge trimmer. Taking the trimmer, he started on the girl's midsection, exposing her vital organs, then moving on to her limbs, and eventually beheaded her. As a classy finish, Bateman jerked off, cumming on the body.

Having everything I needed, I left the house, securing everything back in its place, and hopped in my car. Driving back towards Miami, I began to brainstorm on how I would get Bateman on my table, as soon as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**PATRICK**

My afternoon got started with the appointment from Dexter Morgan, Miami Metro Homicide's Blood Spatter Analyst. We didn't talk much about his profession, though I had to admit to myself, this had to be my favorite client thus far. Even without going into details on his day-to-day work, this guy's life, from what I knew of it, was pretty amazing.

I'd always wanted to meet a real serial killer, up close and personal, just to see what it was like to be around my own. I'd tried to get to see the ones in prison, but everything required credentials, so I couldn't fake an identity, and if I went as myself that might just seem odd. I'd read about Arthur Mitchell, Trinity Killer, and admired his work; he was so meticulous, so ritualistic; it almost seemed like practicing a religion to me. Plus, he carried on so many years with his own Mask of Sanity, using a family as frontline reinforcements for his mask, I was truly envious. There was also the Bay Harbor Butcher, Detective Sergeant James Doakes, who ironically worked for Miami Metro Homicide, same as Dexter. For years, this guy got away with murder, literally, doing Miami a favor and purging the city of lowlifes and degenerates. I guess because of the guy's sense of justice, I would probably fall into his category, but still, I had to respect the man's precision and brutality. I wish I could've met him before he got himself blown up out in the middle of the swamp somewhere, or so the papers said.

I've yet to dump one of my victims in the swamp, though it might be fun. Maybe the weekend after next I'll take a little road trip down to the Everglades, find some swamp whores, fuck them, hack them up, and see if alligators would make a meal out of them. It was an invigorating experience watching Bundy kill prey animals and rip them to pieces, I bet watching an even bigger reptile doing that to a human would be even better.

I was truly jealous of Dexter, because he had two up on me; he met, and worked with a serial killer in his own department, and Dexter's wife was killed by a serial killer. Of course, I hadn't meant to make this discovery, we just stumbled across it in our introduction, but I found it truly fascinating. I think I did a decent job at feigning empathy, pretending to be sorry for my faux pas. I wasn't really sorry, in fact, it made me all the more curious. Deep down, there were a million questions I wanted to ask Dexter; did he find her body, did he see the Trinity Killer, how much blood was there, what were her injuries like, what was Doakes like, how did he carve up his victims, did you ever suspect him of anything? These were questions best kept buried under my Mask of Sanity.

I think that's another reason that attracted me to Miami, the element of murder. Not murder in the crime sense, but the number of unsolved murders that take place in Miami each year. Sure, I'd been cold turkey for awhile, seeing a shrink, but before long, the temptation became too great. The expression goes "heavy is the head that wears the crown"; in my case, heavy is the face that wears the mask. Mask of Sanity, that is. Since arriving in Miami, it's been a delightfully dark playground for me, and no one even remotely suspects me of anything.

Despite my burning desire to ask the most probing, personal questions about death and murder to Dexter, I was proud of myself, as I refrained. Dexter didn't seem to know that much about investments and securities, and normally in this situation I wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the naïve, but I couldn't bring myself to do that to Dexter. He was way too fascinating, so damaged, and actually, someone I could see myself being friends with. So, I gave him the "top shelf" as I call it, the most profitable and failsafe investment strategies I had available, not to mention the trillion more that he asked for when he said he wanted to mull things over. He was a pain in the ass about that part, but other than that, I truly enjoyed his visit.

Before leaving, he did give me his card, so I could schedule a "behind the scenes look" at blood spatter analysis. I would definitely take Dexter up on that, and maybe the next time I kill, the moves I make with the tools can manipulate where the blood squirts and flows. It could be a dark, artistic masterpiece!

The rest of my appointments were squeezed in pretty tightly, so I grabbed a quick Ceviche Del Dia from ToroToro, which I stopped and made enough time so I could enjoy it, then hammered out the rest of my appointments for the day. Many of them the proverbial "old Jews" my dad used to tell me about; personally I didn't care what they were, as long as I could make as much money off of them as I could, ethically or unethically.

As I wrapping up to go home, my wireless cell phone buzzed, and I looked on the screen. An alert message read "NYPBSadist, you have a private message from LuvPainDnsh".

This was an alert from my profile at , one of the many casual sex seekers sites I'd signed up for. If they only had the internet back in the days of the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper, it would open up so much more hunting grounds for me, some of them even willing victims. I'd even had some luck on craigslist, but with all the other craigslist killers out there in the US, I had to be careful.

I opened the app for on my phone, and looked at LuvPainDnsh's profile picture. There stood one of the hottest, most blonde, petite women I'd ever seen. Her hair was so blonde, it was almost white, and her eyes were an icy blue color. She wore a spiked dog collar around her neck, and long, black leather gloves on both her hands, which extended up to her elbow. She was sticking her tongue out, which was pierced, and contained a chain that connected from her tongue piercing, down to both nipples, down to her clit. She wore long, black stiletto heels, and was sucking on a lollipop in the picture.

The subject line read "Sexy profile, let's have fun tonight", and I read the message.

"Hello!

I'm new in the Miami area from Denmark, working as a Paralegal, and just have signed on to the site. I am a sub, who like whipped, beaten, and I get off on most pains. I read you profile and think you would be a perfect match-up; the pictures of your chest are incredible, and you have such big muscles and a wide, delicious looking cock. Normally I wait for man to message me, but all I have got is black and Spanish man, and I only like white man. I'm lonely tonight and would like to have fun. I will be at the No Forgiveness Lounge at 8pm; want to have drinks, maybe dance for bits, and back to my apartment? Here's a picture of me fully clothing, what I will wear, and I will be sitting at bar. Hope to see you tonight, xoxoxo xxx; Emilie"

In addition to the sexy photo she had, there was a picture of her in a nice club dress, holding a martini, as the visual for what she'd be wearing at the club.

I wouldn't kill tonight, I wouldn't kill her, at least not yet, but man was she HOT! I couldn't wait to get into those leather panties.

But at the same time, it seemed a little too good to be true. Sitting down at my computer, I e-mailed the pictures to myself from my phone, and opened them on my desktop. I did a Google image search, to see if these photos had been used by someone else somewhere else; thankfully, they hadn't.

I had some errands to run before 8pm, including returning some DVDs, so I had a little time to kill before I decided to take on her challenge. I wrote back a response, with the subject line "It's a date", and a message that went like this:

"Hi Emilie!

Your picture is amazing, and I would love to dominate you, bring you all the pain you want. You'd be so wet and squirting so much from what I have to offer you, nothing else will ever compare. I will be there at 8p. Could you please give me the address? I've been in Miami all my life and have never gone to that club, weird huh? Look forward to seeing you…Tim"

I decided to come up with a new alias, and a new name to put on the next future apartment in a shithole that I rented; Tim Cunningham, sounds harmless enough.

I finished up at the office, and started on my errands for the evening, first picking up my necessary prescriptions, and finally returning the DVDs. On the way home, I stopped for dinner at Capital Grille, where I started off with a divine steak tartar with truffle deviled egg, before enjoying the titillating, almost orgasmic taste, of their fresh mozzarella with tomato and balsamic; you could taste the mastery of the 15 years of the balsamic. Just when I thought they'd outdid themselves yet again, the masterpiece arrived; a bone-in kona dry aged sirloin with shallot butter, and grilled asparagus on the side. It made me wonder if God's flesh tasted this way, because every bite was on a whole other level of goodness.

Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed again, and Emilie replied back to me. The subject line read "Hello Tim ;)", and a message followed

"Great to see you respond Tim,

Your response made me so moistening, I can't wait to see you tonight, and for you to have hands all over me! It's not weird you've never been, I have not neither, popping each other the cherry ;) address is from Google 602 Collins Avenue Surfside Florida 33154. See you at 8!

Emilie"

I smiled as I finished up my meal; an intelligent response, no fake photos that I can see, naming me by name and an intelligent answer to a specific question. This was the real deal.

When I finished at the restaurant, I drove home to shower, and change clothes. I chose my Brioni Vanquish II suit; dark ash gray, with a blood-red tie, and a white undershirt, all fresh from the drycleaner. I grabbed a fresh pair of my Salvatore Ferragamos, the only shoe brand I wore anymore, and included a spray of Ambre Topkapi on my neck.

After a brief mirror inspection, I headed out, deciding to take the "fun" car, my 2008 Asthon Martin Vanquish, to the club. No matter where I went socially, it was important to impress in every way.

The ride was just a little under 45 minutes No Forgiveness, including the ferry on the way over. Parking was a bitch, as the only option was street parking. Finding a well-lit spot that was a little ways away from the club, I parked and walked the short distance inside.

The ambiance was very bio-luminescent; black lights and glow sticks, but it also had that uptown, stylish flair; it reminded me of a couple clubs back in New York. It wasn't that crowded yet, but the DJ was blaring music. I sat down at the bar, ordering a Rusty Nail, sipping on it while I waited for her. I scanned every person in the bar, not a single one met her description. I was seated near the door too, in case she was running late, waiting to see if she would come through the entrance.

A solid hour goes by, and nothing but me drinking by my lonesome like some loser. About 10 minutes later, I get another alert on my phone, and it was from Emilie, with a subject line reading "So sorry Tim!", and a message:

"Timmy I so sorry, I cannot make it to you tonight. My husband find my profile and is very angry. I will contact once things calm down, please don't mad! Emilie"

Up to the point I'd received the message, I was irritated she hadn't shown, and now, I was pissed. I really didn't care about her cheating, as it turned me on a bit, I was simply furious at her for being so fucking stupid about it that her husband found out. Furthermore, I was pissed at the husband, and wished I knew who he was so I could find him, take a weed eater to his face, and slice him up with an electric turkey knife; thanks to him I wouldn't be getting laid tonight!

I decided to cut my losses and go home, feeling like the whole day and night was a total fucking waste. I get like that when I don't get my way.

I cursed the entire way to my car, slamming the door as I got in, and abruptly hitting and grabbing the steering wheel. As I relaxed in the chair to catch my breath, all of the sudden I felt a piercing pain in my neck, and then everything went black.


	10. Chapter 10

RATED M DUE TO: Graphic Violence, Graphic Sexuality, Strong Profanity, Racism

**Dexter**

The bait worked like a charm, just like I knew it would.

As I drove back in the direction of Miami, I soon came up with a crazy idea that I could potentially use to get Bateman tonight. Turning around, I picked up some necessary supplies from the nearest Home Depot, and headed back to Bateman's Golden Beach house.

I used Bateman's laptop to create a profile with during a free trial version. Knowing how much Bateman seemed to like blondes, I hatched the perfect alias; a platinum blonde Danish woman named Emilie, who loves to be submissive; hence, LuvPainDnsh was born. I also gathered several pictures from the internet, and combined them into one picture for LuvPainDnsh's profile using Photoshop, so he would not find the picture anywhere in an image search used to bust scammers. Once everything was in order, I messaged him, and was pleased at how quickly he responded. As expected, I had to prove to him I was a real person, and gave him the information for the No Forgiveness Lounge, one of the hottest singles clubs in Miami; the rabbit had now been lead to the snare.

Once I'd established a time, and confirmation that Bateman would be there, I started on the kill room. Thankfully, Bateman's laptop had a photo printer, which I could use to print pictures of victims I could not find in one of Bateman's several "scrapbooks" of his dastardly deeds. Once the room was prepped and ready to go, I drove towards Surfside.

I chose the No Forgiveness Lounge in particular, not just because of its notoriety, but because there was only one way in or out for patrons. I staked out the entrance in a nearby used car lot across from the club. After awhile, I finally saw Bateman, who walked down the sidewalk from the left of my view, and entered the club.

Once he was inside, I drove out of the lot, and began to scan the cars along the side of the street from the direction in which Bateman came. Many of them were average to high end, and the one that caught my eye the most was a 2008 Asthon Martin Vanquish, license plate "BATEMAN"; we have a winner!

I always wondered why they named them vanity plates, and even though the answer was simple, it just now dawned on me; they were for the vain, which is what Bateman certainly was. I grinned wryly, enjoying the poetic justice of Bateman's own vanity and self-worth doing him in. Driving my car to a nearby paid lot, I parked it inside, and walked back to Bateman's car, carrying his laptop with me. Having manipulated the keyhole just right, I entered Bateman's backseat, staying down and hidden, waiting for him to return.

After about 30 minutes, I sent Bateman the message that she got busted by her husband and wouldn't be coming; 15 minutes later, Bateman returns in a rage. I couldn't help but smile and mentally chuckle before springing forward and injecting him in the neck with M99.

I got out of the car, slumped Bateman over into the passenger side, and drove to Golden Beach, latex-gloved hands on the steering wheel at all times. 20 minutes later, it was home-sweet-home for Bateman. I got out of the car, and went to the front passenger door. I draped Bateman's arm around my shoulders, and attempted to carry him the way a friend would help a drunken friend get to their destination. Although Bateman's legs didn't budge, I managed to drag him along as best I could, through the sand and over the door threshold. Now inside, it was time to get Mr. Bateman to the killing area.

**Patrick**

I blinked my eyes several times, and all I could see was blurriness at first.

I couldn't remember what the hell had happened. The last thing I remembered is I was at the No Forgiveness Lounge in Surfside, and I stormed off to my car pissed as hell because I was stood up and jerked around by a snotty little sub on ; I remember vowing to make sure she got hers. I guess at some point I blacked out during my rage.

I felt as though, however, I was being lifted by someone or something, and my legs were noodle-like at first, not budging an inch. Feeling something grasping over on my arm, I looked to my right, and saw a male figure in the blurriness, and became incensed.

Obviously some faggot at the club slipped a roofie or something similar in my drink, and was bringing me home to rape; probably even posed as my buddy helping his drunken friend out. This, I could not tolerate, and the faggot had to die.

Reaching in my left pants pocket, all I could find was a pen; not my ideal weapon, but it was better than nothing. Grasping the pen as hard as I could in my weakened state, I thrust my left arm across my front, and into the side of the faggot carrying me.

**DEXTER**

I was halfway through the hallway with Bateman, when all of the sudden, I felt a small bit of resistance. Bateman's feet seemed to be touching the floor, and attempting to walk. Almost as soon as I'd realized this, I felt a piercing pain in my side, like someone had stabbed me with an icepick. Surprised and taken off my guard, I dropped Bateman's arm, causing him to fall to the floor, but stand back up and stagger towards me.

I looked down at my left side, to see a pen wedged into it. Fortunately by the feel of it, it did not hit any vitals that I could tell. This brief glance at my injury cost me however, as Bateman was able to stagger forward enough to deliver a punch to my right eye, knocking me back. Bateman was a muscular guy, in better shape than almost any guys his age, and he packed a hard punch.

I cursed myself for failing to give him the right dose. He wasn't a towering behemoth, but he was a big enough, buff enough guy that his metabolism probably required more than what I gave him, or it was just slow to absorb it. Whatever the case was, it didn't put Bateman on his ass as I hoped it would, and he was going to give me as big of a fight as his consciousness allowed.

**Patrick**

My vision was staring to slowly come back into focus, and my defense with the pen worked. I was free from the faggot carrying me.

I fell to the ground, and remember being puzzled at first; the floor seemed to be covered in plastic wrap, and I slipped a little as I fell. This however, did not deter me from defending myself. As soon as I gained what little equilibrium I had, I managed to punch my faggot abductor right in the eye as hard as I could in my state.

"You're a fucking faggot, I'll kill you!" I yelled.

Whatever was in my system, roofie or otherwise, sure had me fucked up and my speech slurred to hell, because my statement came out as "Uyug a hackig hagga, ah chill uyu!"

Once I'd connected with the punch, I grabbed something in my other hand that was on a stand somewhere in the house, not even knowing what it was, and weakly tried to bludgeon my abductor with whatever I picked up. Bringing the object down, I was stopped by my abductor grasping my forearm. I dropped the object, and managed to get one hand around the guy's throat, then the other, squeezing with what strength I had.

As I squeezed, my vision became sharper and sharper. I was seeing triple vision now, but I could see who I had in my grasp.

"Dexter?" I managed to slur, before my world once again went black.

Little did I know, I'd remember nothing of this brief scuffle.

**DEXTER**

For a drugged person, Bateman certainly was quick. Part of me wondered if he'd been drugged by someone before.

I didn't have time to think for long, because now Bateman came at me with an ornamental desk clock in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, intending to crack me over the head with it. I however, was ready for him, and grabbed him by the forearm, squeezing it until he let go of the object. I foolishly anticipated he'd lose concentration along with equilibrium, and make his way to the floor, but he managed to grab me by the neck, and soon the other hand was around it as well.

Despite his altered state, Bateman was still strong, and I had to fight to keep my air flowing. My hands tried to wrest Bateman from his grasp around my neck, and if I could just get him off me, even for a moment, I might be able to stick him again with the spare M99 I had in my pocket.

We continued to fight each other in Bateman's choke hold over me, and all of the sudden, I saw my moment. Bateman's grip loosened, and he said my name. Taking advantage of that brief moment, I grasped the M99, and stuck Bateman in the neck with it once more, another full syringe of tranquilizer pumped into his body. I just hoped he wouldn't OD and die before I could satisfy my bloodlust.

**Patrick**

I could feel the heat of a light on my eyes, as I slowly blinked them open. All I could remember was blacking out after getting into my car.

I looked around me, and could see I was strapped to a table with some sort of restraints. Maybe I had ended up in the hospital, but why? Did someone smash my front end? Did I have a heart attack from too much cocaine? Was my outburst so intense that it caused my body to shut down? Whatever landed me here, I apparently needed restraints to keep me in line.

Though whatever was holding me down, it didn't appear to be hospital restraints. My forehead, and my entire lower body, were held together by…..plastic wrap? And heavy duty tape? I tried to lurch forward, using all my strength to try and burst through my bindings, thrusting my arms up in a curl like position as well, but neither method worked. Whoever's job it was to restrain me, they did it well.

"You're not going to break out of those if that's what you're thinking." said a strangely familiar voice. "As strong as you are, I made sure you were wrapped up good and tight."

"Where the fuck am I?!" I demanded to the voice. "Who the fuck are you?!"

At that moment, the light shifted away from directly under my face, and I could see my surroundings. I was in my Sanctuary, the Golden Beach bungalow where I kept all my trophies, memoirs, and other items that made me who I truly am; the one place I didn't have to wear my Mask of Sanity. Above the ceiling and the walls, there were photographs; several older ones, some newer, some clipped straight out of a newspaper, but they all had one thing in common. Each one bore the face of a woman I killed.

As my breathing started to get more rapid, freaked out by what I saw, a shadow came over my line of vision, and I saw…Dexter. The Blood Spatter Analyst guy, wearing some sort of weird paintball or woodworking mask.

"You're in the gateway to the hell you've created for yourself." said Dexter. "And I'm about to walk you through it."

"Dexter?!" I said, in a shocking yet affirming voice. "Why are you doing this?! What'd I ever do to you?!"

"This isn't just about me." said Dexter coolly. "Sure, I play a role, my Dark Passenger and I, and you're going to die for the sake of my Dark Passenger's bloodlust."

"You're fucking crazy!" I replied. "They're going to come looking for me, you know that right?!"

"Which is why I took the proper precautions." replied Dexter. "An e-mail from your laptop to your secretary saying "Had to leave, SEC complications", followed by an anonymous tip to the SEC. Within a day or so, they'll show up at your office, and assume you'd left, knowing you're rich enough to pick up the pieces and start anew. There are enough fraudulent securities in your office to lend weight to the story."

Whoever Dexter was, even though I hated to think it, he was absolutely brilliant.

"As for what you've done to me." said Dexter. "It's more about, what you've done to them."

Dexter gestured over to the collage of photographs and newspaper pictures he had strewn about my bungalow. There was no mistaking it, he knew what I was, and what I had did. I had to make him think he didn't.

"And for the record." said Dexter. "As far as what you've done to me, those investments you recommended to me were all bullshit Ponzi schemes."

"You are one sick fuck!" I replied. "Why the hell do you have pictures of dead women all over my home?!"

It was the best line I could think of under the circumstances.

"You insult my intelligence Bateman." replied Dexter. "I've become quite acquainted with your home, your habits, your…trophies. How about a visual aide to help you remember?"

Dexter picked up something, which I saw to be a TV remote, and clicked it. I turned in the direction Dexter was aiming the remote, and saw he'd wheeled in one of my televisions, and a DVD played. It didn't take long for me to realize it was from my snuff collection, and it was the film I'd made when I fucked and killed Brandi Wu, a trailer park escort girl who came to America for opportunity, but found out the only opportunities for her were sucking white cock for money. I put her out of her misery. After a moment of playing, the television clicked off.

"You've hidden from the law for years." said Dexter. "But you can't lie there and try to hide from me. You've got years of blood stained on your hands."

I looked into Dexter's eyes, and saw something very familiar, the emptiness. The emptiness that hid behind an ocular glaze of flesh, bone and gelatin, giving the illusion of humanity. The seemingly innocuous yet horrifying emptiness, like the redness of a Venus flytrap's mouth; harmless at a glance, perhaps even attractive to some, but hiding the deadliness beneath. The emptiness that filled the cavity that was intended for more admirable human qualities, such as empathy, compassion, selflessness; none of these, simply, nothing. There was no point in hiding now.

"I loved all of it, every single exhilarating drop." I said in a loud whisper, both cold and unapologetic. "All of them insects, meaningless, mortals among a god, and that's what killing them makes me. I'm the only God they'll ever see or know, because He doesn't exist, but I do. I've never felt more alive through the death of others."

"Answer me this." said Dexter, walking towards me. "If you're a god, can you bleed?"

I gritted my teeth in pain and growled as I felt the sharp pain slide down my right cheek.

**Dexter**

When I finished making the incision with the scalpel, I used a pipette to siphon some of the blood from Bateman's wound, and placed it on my trademark microscope slide.

"Not my face you motherfucker!" spat Bateman. "Do you know how hard I work at this each day?! I'm going to break out of here and beat the shit out of you!"

"You can try." I said, putting the slide away. "But we both know there's no denying the inevitable."

"So what, are you some kind of Doakes copycat?" asked Bateman. "Trying to be like the Bay Harbor Butcher?"

I turned around, smiling at Bateman.

"I'm impressed, you know your serial killers." I replied. "Except, for the Bay Harbor Butcher, that was me. Doakes was a convenient scapegoat, and never lived to tell anyone otherwise."

I locked eyes onto Bateman, assuring him through my look that I was indeed telling the truth.

"That was one of my tricks." I told Bateman. "Now tell me, how did the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper evade the law all those years?"

"Timing and location for one." replied Bateman. "It was the 1980s, the forensics equipment didn't hold a candle to what you have today. In New York, a big city, full of random women, they disappeared all the time and were never found. I went after the ones no one would miss, or would assume left on a lark; hookers, call girls, groupies, aspiring career women in various industries. Plus, multiple locations to carry out my deeds helped, and I was thrown a lifeline when that copycat killer came along. After that, I bolstered my Mask of Sanity with a wife, eventually a son, and I even stopped killing."

I held up my hand to stop him from talking, intrigued by a term he just used.

"Say that again." I said. "What kind of mask?"

"My Mask of Sanity." replied Bateman. "The world looks at me, and sees who it thinks I am, but this is simply a mask. A mask to let society think I am a caring, empathetic, sane, compassionate, and respectful human being. My Mask of Sanity could even be thought of as a mask of light, which hides the darkness beneath. After starting a family, and with therapy, I did a very good job of keeping it on tight for a long time, but when I reached 'mid-life crisis' age, that's when I started killing again; some guys cheat on their wives, I killed people."

"I don't wear any masks." I replied. "Rather, I'm the keeper of what I like to call my Dark Passenger. That's the part of me that will always seek bloodlust, and never be satisfied, and the rest of me is a vessel to conceal and contain the Dark Passenger from the outside world. Thanks to my father, I'm able to satisfy its urges, and channel it in a way that serves a dark, yet productive, purpose; I kill those who deserve it."

Looking on the surgical instrument table where I kept the cutlery part of my kill kit, I scanned my arsenal, and chose which blade I would use first.

"Mask of Sanity….I like that." I said.

**Patrick**

Despite the serial killer small talk I used to chat up Dexter, it didn't seem to work. All I knew then, is Dexter walked in my direction, holding a filet knife in his hand. For the first time in my life, I felt panic, and fear, like cold mercury inside my stomach. Ironically, like many of my victims, I started to devolve into a similar indignity that they did.

"Dexter, wait, please!" I said, thrashing my neck about. "You and me, we could be partners in this, together! You're right, there's lots of people out there who deserve it, I could help you! Let me help you, please!"

Dexter touched the tip of the blade to my nose, grinning a grim grin towards me.

"You know Bateman." said Dexter, as if he were considering my offer. "You've worn that Mask of Sanity for long enough."

The next moment was the beginning of the most painful agony I'd ever endured. All I felt was searing, sharp pain, and the warm trickle of blood down me, coagulating once it lay still enough. Of all the blood I'd shed of others over the years, having your own spilt in such large quantities, there was no way to describe it. From the pit of my stomach, I screamed the loudest, most blood-curdling scream, born of pure misery. It was all that I could do, all that I had left.

Within the span of minutes, the pain stopped, and the blood continued to flow.

"That's more like it." replied Dexter. "Feels like a weight off your shoulders, doesn't it?"

Dexter held something up at a distance to where I could see it in the lighting, and I looked in horror, at what he had to show me.

The skin from my face.

Broken, deformed, I now accepted that this was the end, and all I could do was weep with my lidless eyes. To make matters worse, Dexter then showed a hand mirror to my face, and I saw the horrid, corpse-like, bloody face that stared back at me.

"This is more your true nature, don't you agree?" asked Dexter.

Weeping even harder at the sight, I gagged and vomited a bit, disgusted by what I saw, yet at the same time, I knew he was right. This was a far more accurate look of my true self, than the perfect image I always tried to convey to the world.

"J-just do it Dexter." I wept, pleading. "Kill me."

Seeing Dexter raise his arms in the air, I saw them come down, and then felt a sharp, poking pain right where my heart was. Coughing up a bit of blood at the impact, I felt the blood drain from the hole Dexter made, and grew weak, my limbs shaking slightly.

I saw the images in the room begin to blur slightly, then become even blurrier, and darker; there was no flash of my life before my eyes, no focus on people from the past, and most of all, no remorse or regret for the things I'd done.

Soon, all that remained was nothing.

**Dexter**

I had been right all along; Patrick Bateman was a cold-blooded killer. And now, he was just another lifeless corpse on my table.

I plugged in an extra-large, electric reciprocating saw, and began to saw Bateman's limbs, using each joint as a point for cutting. As I carved him up, I wondered how many of his victims he'd brought to a similar fate; it seemed both fitting and ironic that he should be dismembered, even moreso ironic that I removed his face.

I couldn't help thinking about Bateman as I did my work; all his success, all those women, and my life, growing up with Harry.

If Harry hadn't taught me the code, and I had gone through medical school, become a surgeon just as I very well could have, I might have become just like Bateman.

I looked down at the collection of severed limbs that was once the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper. This could have been me.

Within a couple hours, the Slice of Life and I made our way to the Gulf Stream, where the bags of Bateman, his memorabilia, and the proof of the crime, would find their new permanent home. I dropped the bags into the water, one by one, save for the bag which contained Bateman's head and face.

I held the bag up, eye level with me, and couldn't believe what I was about to do next. I don't know what came over me, but after I'd gathered everything up, something was nagging at me to give Bateman something more than the rest of the ones that had ended up in bags. Thinking it over, I took something from Bateman's bungalow, which would serve as an appropriate epitaph of sorts. It was displayed in a gold shadowbox atop his desk, and Bateman appeared to be proud of it. Perhaps a memory of his first job?

Taking the item, I tucked it within the knot of the trash bag, and dropped the last remaining piece of the Roosevelt Avenue Ripper into the Gulf Stream.

Within the knot of the bag, was a business card; the color of bone, and Sicilian Rail as the font, and read the following:

Patrick Bateman, Vice President – Mergers and Acquisitions; Pierce and Pierce.

**THE END**


End file.
